


I barely know you

by Assassination (samstoleaburger)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Slow Build, Slow To Update, Tags May Change, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samstoleaburger/pseuds/Assassination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond Miles was the type of person no one expected anything great from. He served drinks at a bar and then was captured by a corporation that wants to use him to find something. When everything he knows is ripped out from under him again, he has to start anew once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. meds

**Author's Note:**

> This was written back in 2010, before everything else was revealed after the second game and so on. Major example: Desmond knew from the start that he was an assassin, because as far as I knew while playing the first game, he had no idea. So, in other words...this isn't going to follow any of the things that happened after the first game and into the second. 'cause there's **no way** I'm going through the 12 chapters I have done to fix this error since starting.
> 
> On another note: I _don't know_ if there will be any pairings in this fic. When I started this it was a request for Altair/Desmond, but as it went on, things changed and I don't know where it's going. The readers from FF.net were also rooting for another possible pair (which you'll see in upcoming chapters)...so...no idea. Tags will change once I reach the final verdict. Or they might not. We'll see.

Desmond Miles was the kind of man one would not expect the most from, not at all. He was just a simple bartender, lived a relatively normal life.  
  
But this was way before a scientist found an interest in him, just a simple lab-rat subject. That was all he was needed for. Being dragged from his completely normal, calm and happy, life and thrust into one of a living Hell. All he was told was, "Mr. Miles, come with us and we promise to take good care of you."  
  
Even as there were men with guns in the background behind the old man who was speaking to him.  
  
Not a way he planned to continue his life, all Desmond wanted to do was keep a low-profile, not being called an 'assassin' in front of his - former - coworkers then being dragged away while kicking and shouting how they had the wrong guy and to look somewhere else. How in the hell could Desmond be related to Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad? Related to an assassin at that. It made no sense.  
  
It boggled his mind to the point there he'd been so confused he hadn't realized until it was too late to escape. If that were even possible. He'd been thrown into a room with a bed, a closet, a bathroom, and a door that would be sealed shut each night due to a password he didn't know.  
  
This seemed worse than when he was younger and had to sneak out of school when he didn't feel like going.  
  
Something was definitely wrong and he knew it. Desmond wasn't one to believe in ghosts but he did believe in that certain superstitious feeling one got whenever something bad was about to happen. This was one of those moments Desmond wished he would have died when that glass slit his face and how it ended up leaving a scar on the right side of his face. Over his lips, to be more precise.  
  
The first day Desmond was placed on the Animus, it completely freaked him out. The surrounding area was one that he'd never known to exist. The bloodshed he saw through golden spheres had his blood run cold. The man who he was 'inside' of was emotionless and didn't care about a damn thing unless it helped with his plan. What freaked him out the most was how this man's left ring finger was gone, up to the first joint from the knuckle. Just thinking of how grotesque it must have looked once the finger was either chopped off or even torn off had Desmond's stomach flip.  
  
He felt like a prisoner within this assassin's body, he was trapped and couldn't turn his eyes away from what was going on.  
  
Then he was stabbed by the 'head hancho' of this cult, pain coursed within his system, senses linked so closely with his supposed ancestor's own. And once everything went dark within the assassin's vision, it effected Desmond's own, causing him to jerk awake once he was pulled out of the system.  
  
Shaking hands instantly clapped over his face and brought his legs up, knees curled. He coughed for a moment before relaxing and glancing over at the old man beside him. "What's up, Doc?" he asked, somewhat rude as he turned, hands placed on the cold metal and legs dangling.  
  
"Well, Lucy here wanted to give you a break, Mr. Miles."  
  
A silent 'Thank you' was given, though Desmond pushed himself up and off of the machine as he was instructed to go rest. "Hot damn..." he muttered, brows furrowed as he shoved his hands into his worn jeans' pockets. Hearing Lucy suggest they, she and the scientist, go to the other room to converse about the issue they were now having.  
  
That was the first day.  
  
Right now Desmond was contained within the room for a whole week now. Slowly he'd grown used to the feeling of invading one's life through, somewhat, being sent back to the past to experience it himself. There were complaints from Warren as he tried to urge the ever-so-caring Lucy to keep the 'subject' within the memories longer than desired.  
  
They did it for an extra thirty minutes, only to then regret it once a sickness had taken over Desmond's insides. Headaches occurred in violent pulses, enough to make him topple over whenever they attempted to take him to the Animus. Just before they were within ten feet of it Desmond would collapse with a groan, then after three days of this Warren had demanded that Desmond take some prescribed medication to make this stop so they could continue finding 'it.'  
  
Whatever 'it' was the former bartender had no idea.  
  
Reluctantly, he'd taken the pills at the time instructed and took how many he was told to. Then, hopefully, soon he'd become well enough that they could actually get him to the machine to sync him with Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. Whatever this industry was searching for must have been very important since Warren was becoming extremely impatient with their slow progress, especially since they were set back three days and needed to hurry.  
  
Letting out a grunt, Desmond lifted himself up on the Animus. Turning, he then let himself fall back slowly to rest upon the cold metal once again. The screen made a 'swooshing' sound as it crawled over his vision. Closing his eyes, Desmond let out a soft breath, reopening them too see the machine glitching though Lucy was moving about like nothing was wrong.  
  
"'ey, Luc-"  
  
Reaching a hand up to make a stopping motion, his eyes widened to see that said limb began to fade. This was the moment when Lucy glanced over and cried out in shock, which in return had Warren hurry over.  
  
"What did you do?" he shouted at her, seeing Lucy shake her head and protesting that she'd only done what she always did. "Fix this!"  
  
"Uh, Doc..."  
  
Both scientists glanced over and the last thing Desmond saw was Lucy covering her mouth after mouthing, "Oh my God..."  
  
Then all was a bright flash of light, pupils dilating, causing Desmond to lift his arms to cover his eyes. His sweater's sleeves, surprisingly, did a wonderful job of protecting his vision. For once grateful for the shaggy clothing he'd been given to change into.  
  
Lowering his arms after seeing the bright shine lower in hue, Desmond blinked and stared in front of himself. "...oh shit."


	2. leap of faith

Glancing about, he realized he was in the middle of a plaza. It seemed that he was in Jerusalem. Well, the Jerusalem back in 1191 to be more percise. Desmond twisted his upper half to gaze over his shoulder and see if he could figure where he was exactly. Swallowing, he bit his lower lip with furrowed brows.  
  
Some guards were surrounding the area, attentive and almost on high security. They seemed uneasy and restless while the ones atop the roof searched frantically for whoever had caused the rising fear in the area.  
  
Walking a few steps forth, Desmond took in his appearance. He noticed that his shaggy clothing was still resting upon his figure then realized that he was not dressed for this time period.  
  
The Templers heading his way now proved that he would be the most questionable being for miles around. Taking a step back, his eyes widened once the Templers picked up their pace and soon came at a full run towards him, causing him to curse and turn to bolt off. He wove through the crowd with occasional shoves to the people who had gotten in his way. Turning into an alleyway, Desmond panted and forced himself to keep his footing as he then smiled from relief once he noticed a ladder.  
  
Grabbing onto the rod, he began his haste to the roof, stopping two from the top once he saw a man staring down at him. The guard was holding both a bow and the arrow slung back, snug against the string.  
  
"Shit," he growled. Desmond reached his right hand out to grab onto the man's ankle and jerked his arm back to make the Templar fall off the roof with a startled cry.  
  
Finally getting up on the roof, the other guards soon at his heels as Desmond ran over the rooftops. His hood flapped in the wind while the flaps of his clothing whipped about in a violent manner.  
  
"Kill the assassin!"  
  
_Fuck! I'm not an assassin, dammit!_  
  
Desmond's eyes widened once he noticed that he was rapidly reaching a ledge. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes once his left foot hit the last step and forced himself over to the other side, reaching his hand out to grab onto the window's bars to the building across from the one he'd lept from. Slowly, knowing his hands had a hold on something, Desmond glanced over his shoulder with a worried look.  
  
Even if he was far away there was another archer holding their weapon at the ready and aiming at him.  
  
"Why me?" he muttered, turning his head to look up and placed the sole of his shoe on a brick sticking out. Once he was sure it was secure, Desmond then began his assent up the building with harsh beats of his heart warning him that if he didn't move faster he'd either plummet to his death or be shot down then fall to his death.  
  
Desmond almost lost his hold once he saw an arrow nick the space just beside his face, the head almost cutting his cheek completely open. Grunting, he recomposed himself, steeling himself and reminding himself over and over that he was a descendant of an assassin. So, with that fact in mind, he shouldn't fear this and have more control over his emotions.  
  
Though that did not change the fact that he was almost killed by that arrow.  
  
Panting heavily, he clung to the little hope that he'd get away even if more Templars were after him instead of the real assassin. Tisking and reaching the top, he slumped over, breathing in and out in puffs. "Damn...how the...hell does he..." Desmond wheezed, eyes halfway shut, "...do it?"  
  
Even if he'd been able to be inside Altair's memories, it didn't change the fact that he didn't absorb any of the stamina. Sure, Desmond had done well in gym at school, got a B- but this was nothing compared to that. This, what was happening right now, was more taxing than running around in a circle for an hour and able to pace how fast you wanted to go.  
  
And your life wasn't at risk for your limited endurance.  
  
"There he is!"  
  
Jerking his head up, Desmond pushed himself up and glanced around for a hay wagon. He cast a quick glance over his surroundings and stopped once his gaze landed on a miracle. Just what he'd been searching for. Running ahead, he leaped off the building, the wind slapping his body, giving the illusion that he was floating while bracing himself for death if Desmond had underestimated the distance of the jump.  
  
The crowd stared up after noticing a shadow upon the ground, almost thinking the jumping man was an angel falling to the ground to 'save them from their sins.'  
  
But Desmond knew this was a suicidal attempt to escape death via Templars.  
  
Eyes watched him closely. Cold hues flickered from their position on the stone bench, the possessor of such dangerous eyes was hunched over, ever so observant while watching someone else try to do a perfect 'Leap of Faith.' The pose was just as it should be, just like how he'd jump from a structure into a pile of hay. Arms were draped over his knees, clothed in white, hood covering his face.  
  
_...they will not make it._ crossed his mind as he shifted to stand, pushing off the bench while some people pointed at the falling figure, now calling him insane and mad.  
  
Desmond opened his eyes then knew right then he wasn't going to make it to the hay stack.  
  
_Fuck me._ he thought with his teeth clamping onto his bottom lip. _I'm gonna die. Great. Goodbye, world._  
  
Screwing his eyes shut, Desmond rose his left arm went to cover his face, mentally saying his goodbyes before he crashed onto the ground and every bone crunched, collapsing on each other and puncture organs to make him bleed internally and on the outside.  
  
After a few moments and not feeling the initial impact he'd been expecting, Desmond hesitantly lowered his arm to see what had prevented him from crashing. All he saw was white fabric, red brimming a belt's outline and then he noted the trio of brown straps connecting to one point, curling themselves around a silver sphere.  
  
Then, even as Templars cried out that they'd found him once more, Desmond let his eyes crawl up slowly before they widened once they landed on the shadowed face.  
  
"Altaïr," passed his lips in a hushed whisper.


	3. left behind

Honey-brown eyes were narrowed at hearing his name slip past the lips of a person he didn't know in the least. Though the cold eyes flicked upwards to the hurrying crowd of the guards who held their swords up and at the ready. Releasing Desmond, Altaïr stepped around him and towards the Templars.

Altaïr's right hand reached for his sword, grasping the calloused handle and pulling his arm to the side. The light struck the blade wonderfully, giving it the illusion of being a weapon of the angels. Of the eagles who found their prey.

Desmond was still staring at him all wide eyed even as he watched all the Templars charge at his ancestor, whom jumped back once a blade swung at him.

Altaïr twisted his body, leaping up and swinging his blade to slice the guards' arms, thrusting his left leg forth to kick one into the crowd while pushing himself back. His left hand's fingers spread, his blade slipping out while he shoved his hand forth into a Templar's face. Desmond turned his head, everything seemed to be in slow motion. The hidden blade Altaïr possessed going through the head's open mouth, slicing off the tongue and slicing through the back of the throat. Yanking his arm back, Altaïr watched the body fall, hearing screams and shrieks of horror echoing about the area. The sounds slammed against Desmond's eardrums, crashing over him and swallowed thickly once those hawk-like eyes shifted to look upon him.

Even if the hood covered the man's face Desmond knew that those eyes were on him and only him.

 _Are you afraid?_ That unspoken question hung in the air, making the younger tense up as Altaïr turned to fully face him, expression blank as it usually was.

They seemed to stare at one another for what felt like hours before Desmond glanced to the side to see even more of those nuisances heading their way with weapons raised, senseless cries of that they found them and to get more reinforcements to take them down. Shifting his foot back, Desmond swung his fist at the first one to reach them. The impact did little but it made the Templar stumble back, giving Desmond enough time to lift his right leg and slam his foot into his opponent's mid-section.

Hunching over to cough, Desmond grabbed onto the man's head, bringing his knee up to slam it into the man's face. Which in return had the guard cry out in pain before Desmond shoved him towards the other Templars.

Altaïr, on the other hand, was busy trying to keep Desmond from the harm of the enemy's blade. Sliding the planes of it against the sharpened edge, he soon disarmed the guard and shifted his left hand to grab the sword flying within the air before slicing the offender's head clean off.

Screams of terror sounded around the two as Desmond took the offered weapon to slit a stomach open, organs pouring out before he stepped back quickly before a sword hit him.

_Too many -_

A hand suddenly took hold of his arm, Desmond's lips parted from shock as he glanced behind to see Altaïr sheathing his sword and hurrying away from the Templars while tugging him along. Desmond's eyes were wide before his chest heaved as they weaved through the crowd. Pushing his limit again, Desmond bit his tongue to keep his mind in check.

Reminding himself once more that he could be killed if he tripped or stopped to catch his breath.

"Holy shit!" slipped past his lips once he was tossed into a haystack, stumbling with a groan once he landed. The scraps fell over his form, Desmond rolling into the middle of the hay to hide well.

Closing his eyes, Desmond rubbed his face then his elbow which took the brunt of the impact before his eyes snapped open once he heard the clanging of swords then the padding of the soles to shoes heading into an all together different direction from where he lay. Realization then hit him.

 _That bastard left me!_ crossed his mind with furrowed brows, turning to place his left hand on the ground, peeking out from a thin slit to see that a guard was still standing there, glancing about. _No, he didn't. He's got all those fuckers after him now!_

His gaze shifted down, seeing the sword he'd dropped. Swallowing thickly, Desmond slid his hand out and gripped the handle, breath catching in his throat once the metal clacked against the stoned flooring. Desmond snapped up into a standing position as the guard turned while getting his own weapon. Thrusting his left hand out, he gripped the fabric to the Templar's clothing to tug him forth and shoving the blade into the man's chest. Blood poured down, slipping along the length of the blade and drenching Desmond's sleeve. The crimson fluid dripped down the guard's lips and chin, little droplets hitting the ground.

Breathing in heavily, his eyes were narrowed then his hand shakily released the shirt, staring down at the body then slowly looking over at his stained sleeve and flesh. Two lives. He'd just taken two lives just to save his sorry ass.

"Shit." Desmond breathed, lifting his head to see a young boy staring at him. A teen by the looks of it and the boy looked horror-stricken. "This's bad."

Turning on his heel swiftly, he rushed in a random direction to go hide and hopefully find his ancestor at the same time. Desmond's legs felt like jello and his muscles protested at the strain he was giving them. Lips were parted, releasing quick pants while also breathing in a desperate manner. Desmond's eyes were full of shock and horror as to how he could simply kill someone just to get away from danger.

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_


	4. ruffled feathers

His shoes scrapped along the surface of the tiled building, his sword sheathed while his gaze shifted about to find a place to escape notice. Only to furrow his brows as more and more guards came at him. Ducking his head, Altaïr then slammed his elbow against a guard's chest, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground.  
  
"Kill the assassin!"  
  
Gritting his teeth, he glanced back before veering to look ahead and darted off once more with narrowed eyes. It seemed as if this had been going on for a long while, then again he never had to toss a civilian into a haystack that he could have used to conceal himself instead. Though the civilian knew his name and had worn such odd attire. Twisting as he reached a ladder, he scaled down then thrust it to the side once his feet tapped the ground. With that done, he plopped his bottom down on the bench beside the ladder he'd shoved.  
  
Surprised cries rang out in the alleyway as guards fell from the roof, having not stopped in time. Golden spheres flickered dangerously as a sickening crack split the screams' volume.  
  
A sadistic smirk tugged at Altaïr's lips while he hunched over in the seat as the two women beside him jerked up into a standing position, hands covering their mouths with a shriek of fear before they turned and ran off. Even then he continued to sit there, watching the man squirm about upon the dirt ground, grabbing at his leg which had bent in an awkward position.  
  
Indeed, this was a pleasant twist upon his day.  
  
"Argh! Agggh! My leg!"  
  
Raising his head, Altaïr peered down on the male who turned, placing his hand on the ground while looking back up at the face of a man who doesn't bother to regret a thing he does.  
  
Those eyes were flashing with the peach lips parting to reveal his teeth, the left side tugged up more into a murderous smirk. Promising death and misery for those who were graced with such a sight.  
  
"...n...no...!"  
  
Slowly he stood, reaching for his sword. A swift motion later and a head was rolling a little a ways away.  
  
Blood pooled out onto the ground, drenching it with the crimson shade that caused Altaïr's lips to twitch upwards. The metallic scent assaulted those around's senses, causing them to stumble back with a gag while the man swung his arm to the side which had the blood flick off before sliding it back into its sheath. Turning on his heel expertly, he then walked off, leaving the scene and headless body behind him.

* * *

Desmond turned on his heel, eyes darting from side to side as a scream pierced his senses. _What the hell was that?_ crossed his thoughts before blinking sharply once he caught the sight of a mop of raven locks, stern features with a scowl attached to this man's face. _...Malik?_  
  
No doubt, it was said man. A relieved look passed Desmond's features as his shoulders slumped from such joy to know that he'd found someone else he knew. Though, sadly, he seemed to toss aside the fact that he wasn't Altair.  
  
So without any further adieu, he began his jog over but abruptly stopped once a crowd of pot holders began to get in his way, passing in front of him. Growling internally, he stood on his toes, swaying from side to side, his eyes intent on the man he was now seeking out. Malik would give him answers, at least Desmond hoped. Then again, with him looking like Altair in the physical aspect, Desmond doubted he'd gain much, but it was worth a try.  
  
Yeah, be optimistic, even if he was, both literally and figuratively, royally fucked over.  
  
Swallowing thickly, he felt his patience waning with each step the stubborn man took away from the area. _No, no. Stay there..._ Desmond pleaded through his thoughts, _Stay. Don't go, dammit!_  
  
Malik suddenly paused and turned slightly, facing a stand that was offering a variety of food. A dumbfounded look crossed Desmond's features at his stoke of luck before clenching his hand into a fist, jerking his elbow back with a low, 'Yes!'  
  
"Hmm..." Malik furrowed his brows as he leaned forth, his dark eyes staring down on the apples set up for display on the somewhat nice day. "I will only take three."  
  
"Indeed, sir," was the only response before the one armed man began to slide the apples into his outfit's pockets in the back. Closing his eyes while doing this, he soon reopened them, slipping his hand to his dagger and spinning harshly, blade stalling a mere centimeter before slitting Desmond's throat. "O-oh my!"  
  
"Uh..." Hands raised in a defensive position, a nervous smile on Desmond's face. "...I come in peace?"  
  
Silence floated over both of their heads, a heavy blanket weighting Desmond's ulterior down while shivering at the icy stare he was getting. Eventually Malik expertly flipped the dagger to have the blade facing downward before slipping it back into its sheath.  
  
"That was quite the pathetic performance, novice."  
  
_I knew it..._  
  
"Look, you don't understand, I'm not -" Desmond paused instantly once he then caught sight of guards and a few higher ranked Templars heading their way, looking obviously flustered, their feathers ruffled to the point Desmond didn't think they'd be smoothed in any fashion. "Y'know, let's talk about that later. I don't think I wanna be around to see what they'll do."  
  
Malik's expression went from annoyed to confused. "What do you -"  
  
In a rush of adrenaline, Desmond's hand shot out to grab onto Malik's arm. "No time." he urged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, before we carry on into chapter five, I want to let it be known that , I've been _repeatedly_ reminded of the language barrier and how _no one_ should understand Desmond. Amoung other things. Just trust me when I say, "I know that, but I also know what I'm doing." I have answers for that and various others coming up in future chapters. Like...very far into the future but not thirty chapters worth of waiting for them, okay? Just trust me.
> 
> Also, yes, Altaïr is more malicious/darker here than he is in the game. It's another difference I've made to add a little bit of...I guess the word I'm looking for is 'surreal' or something close to. I guess... Basically making the title actually be more than just a title. *motions hands* You get what I mean.


	5. building trust

He couldn't understand this situation while he was being dragged along by, who he thought was, Altair. That arrogant man Malik decided he'd loathe for years to come, and even when he died he'd continue to hate his 'brother.' But by this mere action of retreating from the soldiers, it had Malik ponder on if this was a mirror image of his fellow assassin or if Altair was just messing with him.  
  
Though he took into account of the attire this boy was wearing and that he didn't possess any weapons on his person. So perhaps this was someone else.  
  
They turned a corner and Desmond skid to a stop, panting as he veered from side to side. Swallowing thickly before turning around sideways and peering over his shoulder to regard Malik. "W-where's the bureau?"  
  
Hearing this had a dumbfounded look cross Malik's features before it morphed to one of fury and irritation. "What do you mean 'where's the bureau'? You drag me around and then stop to ask me such a question -"  
  
Releasing the one arm the other possessed, Desmond turned around completely with a frown, his features now a complete replica of Altair's. "Look, I'm going to say this once and only once: I'm not Altair. Now, if you want answers..."  
  
Desmond saw that look in the dark hues the other owned, watched as they narrowed in a demanding manner.  
  
"...then tell me which way your bureau is."  
  
After what felt like hours of staring, days of just glaring, years of debating, Malik finally relented with a deep frown. As if not trusting this man whom claimed he was not Altair and that he was trustworthy. Which he had every right to do but when his eyes took into account the look he was given, how serious this man was, how determined and yet so sincere in their own way. As if promising Malik that no harm would befall him should it come to a fight.  
  
Quite a difference from the look Altair possessed at Solomen's Temple.  
  
Letting out a soft exhale, Malik swallowed, eyes falling halfway shut before motioning to the front of himself then a bit a ways to the right. Nodding with this information passed his way, Desmond peered around the corner with a cautious look.  
  
Personally, he would rather avoid a fight rather than having killed another person on his conscious. Then again, he'd already killed two people, what could another do to him? Maybe have him turn away and vomit upon the streets - dirt road - whatever one would describe it as.  
  
That and the first stain would have a companion to join it upon his clothes.  
  
Oh God, he needed to clean these or acquire new clothes before he was chased more than usual because of these Templars searching for assassins and troublemakers and all that shit. One less thing he need on his 'Fuck my Life' list.  
  
Noticing that there was no one around, Desmond released a long breath and glanced over his shoulder to look at Malik, taking note of how unpleased he seemed about this. A nervous lump formed in Desmond's throat as he pondered on what would happen if, or when, they got to the bureau. What the other man would do the moment they were safe? Forcing himself to swallow and focus, he moved forth, motioning for Malik to follow.  
  
That was then that he caught the sound of footsteps atop the rooftop above him. Jerking his head back, Desmond frowned deeply as he watched the aforementioned man leap across to the other roof.  
  
_Are you fucking kidding me...?_ was all that had crossed his mind, blinking once he saw Malik motion behind him. Turning sideways to see exactly why he had done so, Desmond's eyes widened as he saw exactly what he didn't want to.  
  
Guards.  
  
Well, wasn't that just swell? Mentally groaning at this, he took a step back and raised his hands immediately once they drew out their weapons. "Whoa, hold on..." he started then stiffened as he heard one cry, "Assassin," and leaped back from a blade aiming for his stomach. "Shit!"  
  
The scruff of his heel tapped the ground wrong and he tripped, gritting his teeth as he turned, pressing a hand to the dirt surface, only to then see why they had been so hasty to attack him. The blood on his sleeves.  
  
At this moment he figured God hated him and wanted him to suffer for whatever the hell he'd done.  
  
Though now was not the time to think about such trivial things.  
  
Desmond glanced over at the guards, one once again swinging his blade. He pushed away, having his left arm nicked, a hiss passing his lips before furrowing his brows. Desmond thrust his right leg up, foot kicking a nearby guard's hand. This course of action causing him to drop the sword he'd been holding.  
  
Quickly getting to his feet, Desmond snatched up the dropped weapon and moved his hand in a diagonal line upwards to block an attempted strike from his being distracted with picking it up. Steel clashed, the sound ringing in his ears.  
  
It almost caused him to flinch.  
  
But there was no time to hesitate in this situation. Especially with the fact that he was outnumbered and Malik had probably ditched him like Altair had. Even if the latter had been forced to do so.  
  
Sighing heavily on the inside, Desmond shifted his foot back to gain more balance and moved his other hand to grasp the handle of the blade with furrowed brows. Outnumbered or not, he had to win this fight, whatever the cost. Pushing his weight forth, he forced the Templar to back off, bringing his sword to his side then thrusting it forth into the guard's chest.  
  
Blood bloomed and slipped down the steel, then onto his hands once more.  
  
Forcing himself to ignore it, Desmond rose his left foot and kicked the corpse off his sword and then raised it to swing it down on a slant, slicing one from the shoulder halfway into their chest. Though this time Desmond released his hold on the sword and turned on his heel to introduce his fist to the third's face.  
  
While he was doing this the forth Templar had pulled out his dagger and zeroed his sights on Desmond's left shoulder. Pressing the palm of his hand to the hilt, the guard shoved it in the direction of his target, hitting its mark and causing Desmond to grit his teeth and close his eyes tightly.  
  
Leaving an opening for the man Desmond was about to strike and said man taking this opportunity to punch him in the gut. Gasping from the force, Desmond hunched over and coughed with a pained expression on his face. He lifted his head up to see that the third guard had pulled out a knife and was about to slam it down into his spine.  
  
_Shit...!_ His eyes widened as that wicked grin turned into a smug smirk the closer it got. _Shit - no!_  
  
Taking in what could have been his last breath, Desmond clamped his eyes shut and tensed. Ready to feel the pain, ready to die, yet nothing came.  
  
Only the sound of a thud and a, "Who is there? Show yourself!" from the man behind him.  
  
Slowly, one eye opened then the other soon after, noticing that there was a throwing knife in the deceased Templar's neck. Blinking and placing an arm around his waist, Desmond stood erect abruptly at the sound of a gurgled scream of agony.  
  
Whipping around, he felt absolutely relieved once he saw Malik.  
  
The man seemed to be looking at something and after a dribble of blood slipped down Desmond's back did he know what said object was being stared at. Yet before he could do anything, Malik reached out, gripped the handle to the dagger and yanked the blade out of his flesh.  
  
Which got a sharp inhale of breath through grit teeth and then Desmond tried not to show how much it truly hurt.  
  
"Come, novice, I must bandage those wounds."  
  
Desmond felt a weak smile tug at his lips, perhaps he was imagining it but he could have sworn he heard worry lacing itself in Malik's words. "Lead the way."


	6. God's on holiday

Once Malik was inside the bureau, Desmond began his descent into said building. His right arm shook a bit due to the strain on the wound that had been inflicted. In all honesty, he was glad that Malik hadn't taken advantage of his condition and killed him. Alongside the fact that Malik even said he'd dress and take care of it.  
  
Though that didn't mean he appreciated the addition of 'novice' to the sentence.  
  
Gritting his teeth, Desmond placed his left hand into a slit just large enough for one's fingers and released the hold his right had on the ledge. Taking in a relieved breath, Desmond let himself drop down, bending his knees to absorb the impact of the small fall and was mindful of the small fountain at the bottom. Desmond stood and glanced over his shoulder to see Malik returning with a bowl full of water, a rag hanging over the edge of the clay object, along with a dry one slung over his shoulder and thread and needle between Malik's teeth.  
  
Oh shit.  
  
That's right. People didn't have morphine, pain killers or anything to numb the pain that Desmond knew was to come.  
  
Turning on his heel, Desmond reached back to remove his jacket, clenching his jaw to keep a soft grunt from escaping. His hands took hold of the fabric and pulled his arms forth as he bent over while tugging the article of clothing off. Secretly, Desmond was happy that the jacket obscured the view of his face as he made a pained expression for the brief moment of privacy, soon breathing in and out as if this was the norm.  
  
When Desmond finally got it off, he tossed it aside and didn't even bother to look at the damage that had been done.  
  
Not that he minded. In that whack-job of an 'industry' he had about five more of those hoodies. All exactly the same size, style, feel...  
  
Raising himself up into a standing position once more, Desmond took note how Malik had gone to sit down on the mass of pillows that were perfectly situated in the corner of the room. A place he knew all too well, though only through Altair's eyes.  
  
That's the only way he knew things in this timezone was only because of the glimpses through the Animus. That was it, point blank.  
  
"Are you going to sit down sometime soon?"  
  
Blinking, Desmond pulled himself out of those thoughts rattling his mind, although a question came to mind that made this situation seem a bit off. He moved over, taking off his black undershirt, folding it and slowly settling his bottom onto the tiled flooring in front of Malik. His eyes focusing on the brick wall, closing them a bit with a contemplating look crossing his features.  
  
"Hey..." Desmond started, setting the shirt down to be cradled in his legs which were crossed and soon resting his elbows on his knees. "How can you understand me? I thought that all you spoke S-"  
  
"Simple."  
  
He rose a brow, turning his head to look over at Malik, whom was currently handing the needle to Desmond once he saw that the other was looking at him. Taking hold of said object, he waited patiently for the other to elaborate on what was so 'simple' about being able to understand and speak the language Desmond, himself, did.  
  
Once pleased with how everything was placed and ready to start the cleaning process, Malik picked up the rag hanging over the edge of the bowl and dipped it into the water. "I have time to do what I please whenever I have nothing else to do. So, to put it simply, I have been studying the language you speak." Pulling the cloth out, he began to dab at the knife's target.  
  
Which made an unintentional cringe come from the wounded man.  
  
"Now, I have a question for you." One last dab was done then Malik moved the rag down to wipe away the threads that had formed due to the blood slowly flowing out over time. "Who are you?"  
  
Desmond returned his attention to the wall, a small shudder running down his spine from the air brushing over the water. "Desmond. Desmond Miles."  
  
A soft hum was his response, the bloodied cloth removed from his flesh and placed back into the water. Soon it was replaced with the dry one, soaking up the bloodied water. "I am Malik."  
  
 _Yeah...I know._ crossed his mind, though Desmond didn't say it. He looked down on the needle, eyes closing as he twirled it between his fingers. _I know your name, I know about this place, I know you hate Altair and damn him to Hell..._  
  
"Pleased to meet you."  
  
There was no response from Malik until he tapped Desmond's shoulder to get him to glance over, motioning for the needle to be handed over. Doing so, Desmond hissed once it was slipped under his skin and tugged through the separated part. Fuck, it hurt. Yes, he'd admit, it was painful and he was trying so hard not to jerk away or curse everything aloud.  
  
He shifted his hands to grab onto his knees, digging his nails into the fabric of his pants as he grunted at the third time the needle slid through his flesh.  
  
Absentmindedly, Desmond pondered on if Malik was having a hard time doing this with one hand. Then again, the man could get dressed, most likely needed to rebandage his arm to prevent infection.  
  
Though, wasn't infection common in this -  
  
"Ow!"  
  
Sudden yank was _not_ appreciated.  
  
"I asked how do you know about the bureau." Malik pointed out with a certain bite to his tone.  
  
Desmond looked down on his hands, seeing that they had relaxed somewhere along the process of his wound being sewn up. Swallowing thickly, he gnawed on his lower lip for a few moments before exhaling softly.  
  
"I'm an assassin."  
  
There was a pause from behind him. "...prove it."  
  
Seriously? After he'd somewhat skillfully killed those guards, climbed with a bit of difficulty yet could keep up with the man, knew about the bureau, Malik needed confirmation? This was just not his day.  
  
Well, it could be worse...  
  
"All righty. 'Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent, hide in plain sight...'" he paused and took in a slightly pained breath.  
  
"...and...?"  
  
Desmond looked over at Malik with a grin. "'Don't compromise the Brotherhood.'"  
  
There was a small twitch at the corner of his companion's mouth, as if he were about to smile and managed to stop himself in time. Or, worse case senerio, Desmond unintentionally sounded like Altair.  
  
Arrogant, ignorant, cocky... Oh, that sounded bad.  
  
Though Desmond blinked once he saw that the man was, indeed, smiling. Just a bit.  
  
Which was good, it meant that he wouldn't be killed or thrown out. Yet. Who knew when Malik would get sick of him sticking around and would simply toss him out onto the streets with nothing but the clothes on his back and the minimal amount of street smarts he possessed. If that were the case, Desmond figured he may as well soak up whatever good luck that was tossed his way while it lasted.  
  
When the smile vanished and was replaced with a serious look, however, Desmond swallowed thickly and mentally began praying just as he had before when he'd gotten to Jerusalem. That look meant trouble, it meant something bad was going to happen. It meant doom if someone answered whatever Malik was going to say wrong.  
  
In other words: death.  
  
"Though you know the tenants, that tells very little as to where you hail from."  
  
 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit... God, you hate me, don't you?_  
  
"W...well, that's true...but -"  
  
Malik leaned forth and bit the end of the string to snap it after having secured it and, just as swiftly as he'd done that, he wrapped his arm around Desmond's neck. Pulling him against his chest, Malik's hand was turned so the needle's end was prodding at his neck in a threatening manner.  
  
"How can I be sure you are not Templar scum attempting to infiltrate the assassins?" Malik growled, adding pressure to let Desmond know this was no joking matter. "You still possess your left ring finger."  
  
Now, normally Desmond would laugh in a carefree manner - but this was an assassin. A trained killer, one who knew how to use whatever they could to their advantage and make even something as tiny as a needle look like a lethal weapon. So, instead of laughing, Desmond's heart was pounding as his pupils dilated and his breath hitched from fear. How stupid he had been to let his guard down around Malik. How ignorant he'd been to think that the three tenants would have been enough to convince that he was what he claimed to be.  
  
"...nothing to say?"  
  
He couldn't move his hands from their spot, mind racing to come up with an answer that wouldn't, perhaps, alter time and all that.  
  
"Then you shall d-"  
  
"W-wait!" Desmond cried, eyes wide and looking about with panic twirling him around its finger. "Wait! I-I'm an assassin, I swear. I'm just...from far away. Far, far, far - fucking - away."  
  
It seemed as if Malik were thinking over what he'd just proclaimed, seeing as the needle was no longer against his neck. "...and just where is this place?"  
  
 _Wow...I should've stolen someone's clothes..._ Raising his hands, Desmond froze when the needle returned to where it had originally been. _But no, I jammed my foot into my mouth._  
  
"You wouldn't believe -"  
  
"Try me," was ground out as Malik tightened his arm's hold.  
  
"- okay, maybe you would. I'm from someplace that isn't here. I doubt you've heard of -" Desmond bit his tongue as he felt the murderous intent raise the longer he put the answer off. "- maybe you have. Okay. Okay. Shit..." Lowering his hands, he licked his lips nervously. "America."  
  
"'America?'"  
  
Desmond let out a relieved breath when Malik pulled his arm back entirely and was no longer threatening his life. Which had been dangling on a thin string since he got here. Moving to stand, Desmond turned to look at the other, whom was watching him carefully. "Yeah...America."


	7. distrust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Italicized text_ is the character speaking in a different language. (I don't know any other language besides English, so...)

Now, either it was him or not, that answer brought about an onslaught of questions. Obviously the first being, "Where is this 'America?'" and so on. Eventually Desmond wound up slipping and bringing up electronics and other things he probably shouldn't have. Say instant coffee. That lead to a rather humorous debate.  
  
It was surprising how much fun it was to talk with Malik. How he would rub his chin when in deep thought, furrow his brows and start scowling when the debates would get so deep and longer. At times they let the other win, others they waited it out by trying to outdo and get the opposite man to surrender. Again: it was actually fun. Not only that but Malik would show Desmond the scrolls and maps within the bureau.  
  
That is, after Desmond finally convinced him that he was an assassin and not a Templar.  
  
Which was a task in itself, but putting that aside...  
  
Altair must not have known what he was missing. Now, even though his attention span to educational stuff was lacking now, Desmond was actually engaged in what was being shown. Occasionally leaning in close to see what was being pointed out and going to far as to ask questions about this and that. Malik was more than willing to answer them. Never got irritated, never scowled, and never even mentioned the word 'novice' once.  
  
Well, never said it out loud to Desmond's face. Who knew what was going on in the man's head.  
  
Eventually, Malik had pointed out that the other's clothing choice was rather - in simpler terms: he stuck out like a sore thumb. Desmond wasn't going to argue with him there, not one bit, since it was true. If his first impression was anything to go by. So they'd ventured to the back, right when a certain assassin decided to drop in.  
  
" _Malik?_ " was called out.  
  
Desmond actually stiffened when he heard the man's name be called out, holding onto a spare dai jacket that had been handed to him. His hold tightened and swallowed thickly. Yep, he could tell, Altair was irritated. Both were. Desmond peered over his shoulder whilst Malik made his way to the front, pushing the curtain separating the rooms aside before stepping through.  
  
" _What do you want, Altair?_ " Malik questioned, his tone a little on edge.  
  
It was a massive difference from how he spoke to Desmond. Well, a tad. Taking into consideration that Malik was still angry about Solomen's Temple. Still, ouch.  
  
Desmond actually felt sorry for Altair, having to now hear it through his own ears and not the Syrian's. Biting his lower lip, he slid on the shirt that rested on the bed then the jacket. Now, he would've put his hoodie back on but - Oh shit. His hoodie was still on the ground where the pillows were.  
  
" _I have completed my mission._ "  
  
" _...well done, novice._ "  
  
This was where Altair would give Malik the feather to then be shooed off. If he recalled right.  
  
" _Malik,_ "  
  
_Wait...wait. Wait a damn minute. Don't tell me..._ Desmond paused as he was clipping the top button of sorts. _...don't tell me..._  
  
" _What is that?_ "  
  
There was an irritated sigh before Desmond decided to poke his head out from the back, as dressed as can be of this time. Though still in his denim jeans. If one cared about fashion sense right now, they'd say he was a fashion disaster. He froze once a pair of golden eyes turned towards him.  
  
His hand gripped the fabric beneath his fingertips, staring back before averting towards his hoodie. Which just so happened to be what Altair had been pointing at and questioning. Swallowing roughly, Desmond stepped into the room fully, releasing the curtain and slowly making his way over to his bloodied jacket. Ever so slowly. Yes, he was a bit on edge.  
  
Who wouldn't be? Altair was covered in blood for Pete's sake. If that isn't scary enough, then perhaps how he was watching him so intently was.  
  
Desmond didn't need to worry about that for long since Altair decided he wasn't worth his time and turned his attention back to Malik. " _How did he get here?_ "  
  
Malik frowned at the question, resting his elbow on the counter while rubbing his chin. " _I brought him here._ "  
  
" _Why would you do such?!_ " Altair hissed, crossing his arms then motioning over to Desmond with his chin. " _He might be a Templar for all we know. Besides that there is something off about him._ "  
  
" _How harsh of you,_ " Malik sighed, obviously irritated by the man's words, " _he is fine, Altair. Dezmund is not a Templar._ " He then turned his attention to Desmond, whom was picking up his jacket and standing. Wincing a little as the action tugged at his stitches. " _Besides, he is harmless...well, to us._ " A chuckle came at this, which caused Desmond to turn and look over at the other two with a scowl beginning to form.  
  
He couldn't tell if they were making fun of him or not, so forgive him if he feels offended. _Damn language barriers,_ crossed his mind before tucking his hoodie under his arm.  
  
" _...I still don't trust him._ " was all Altair could supply. Ignoring the fact that Desmond said his name earlier.  
  
" _Play nice. He is far from home._ "  
  
Altair's eyes were on him again, causing Desmond to stare back. Figuring he may as well stand his ground and not look like he as a pansy. He wasn't, Desmond had taken down some guards since his arrival. Sure, he couldn't run as long as Altair could, knew he couldn't take an arrow to the shoulder and remove it himself - That sounded bad too.  
  
Slowly Altair made his way over to him, looking him over as if assessing what he was capable of or what 'little' potential the young man might possess. Once he was standing a few feet away, Altair uncrossed his arms. "Dezmund..."  
  
"Uh, hey?" Desmond rose a brow at the mispronunciation of his name. Malik had done the same. Perhaps he may as well just get used to it. He blinked once he noticed Altair giving him an odd look. "...thanks for earlier."  
  
The weird look returned once again.  
  
_Language barriers, gotta love them..._


	8. trailed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn't obvious in the last chapter: Desmond doesn't speak a lick of any foreign language. All he knows is English. ...for now.

If Desmond were to wrap up how the end of his first day in Jerusalem went...well, he'd simply say that it was a living Hell.  
  
Starting with the fact that he had to run for his life and nearly ended it himself. Along with the guards and swords and blood - yeah. It was a living Hell. End of the line was how Altair kept looking at him funny as if he didn't trust him. That annoyed Desmond to no end. If he wasn't trustworthy then he would have stabbed the man in the back when they were fighting the guards.  
  
If he had been a Templar he would have killed Malik and wouldn't have slaughtered the guards. Well, he didn't exactly slaughter them but close enough.  
  
It had been a few days after he wound up here. Each time he woke up, he'd lost a little hope that he was just dreaming. Though shouldn't he be glad he was free of Abstergo?  
  
Sitting up on the batch of pillows, Desmond leaned his elbows on his knees, brows slanting. During the course of the passing days, Malik had taken him clothes shopping, hiding the Desmond's old clothes in the process. They also went shopping for ink, paper, which had Malik ask him what the paper where he was from was like, and clothes. It wasn't that it made Desmond homesick, since here he was 'free.'  
  
It just made him wonder if he would be stuck here.  
  
Desmond glanced to the side, noticing that Malik had just walked out of his sleeping quarters. Half-dressed. He couldn't blame him for wanting less layers, it was ridiculously hot some days and some not. Again, he only knew this when he invaded Altair's memories.  
  
He shifted where he sat, placing a hand on the ground as he twisted his upper half to look over at Malik fully. They'd found Desmond some loose clothing, where he could be mobile, able to run if necessary and even had a hood. Just to try and keep his head cool. Said hood was off at this point as his eyes lowered to his bare hand.  
  
Desmond's injury was still healing. He gave his companion-of-sorts credit for being able to bear with the pain he had. It made him cringe when he thought about it. The condition he'd seen it in through Altair's eyes had his stomach twist. It had almost made Desmond feel the need to rush to the nearest toilet, but he couldn't at the time. Still, he was sure the pain was excruciating.  
  
Malik must have noticed him pondering over things because he moved over to Desmond, tapping his head with an unused roll of paper. "What is troubling you, Dezmund?"  
  
The tap jerked Desmond out of his thoughts, tipping his head back to lock sights with Malik. His chest vibrated with the contemplating sound he'd made, raising his hand to rub the back of his neck as Desmond turned his eyes away. "Nothing. I was just..." He couldn't help that his gaze went to Malik's missing arm. Unlike how when he was only allowed along for a rough ride, through the Animus, he couldn't control himself.  
  
It was as if his curiosity laid itself bare, not hidden behind Altair's stoic exterior.  
  
Malik's eyes shifted, following Desmond's line of sight, to then notice that he had been staring at his arm.  
  
With a soft sigh, Malik moved his right hand to place it against the stump, the paper crinkling a bit from the action. Desmond's breath caught in his throat, swallowing thickly as his fingers flexed, his mind screaming for him to say he was sorry, that that had been rude of him - to fucking stand up and look his host in the eyes. The problem was...Desmond couldn't get his body to agree and act out what he wanted.  
  
Instead Desmond merely lowered his head, gnawing on his lower lip. "Malik, I -"  
  
"Do not worry yourself, Dezmund." came from him, his tone slightly on edge.  
  
"...I'm sorry." He turned to face the fountain, curling his knees and placing his elbows on them as his hands rested on his biceps. "I shouldn't have - shit...I'm sorry." Desmond tightened his hold while closing his eyes.  
  
Malik stared down on Desmond, the one who resembled Altair but didn't act like him at all.  
  
Letting out a soft exhale,  he lowered his hand from where he'd placed it. Desmond was like a breath of fresh air, so curious and attentive when Malik had talked to him. They had even begun lessons to teach Desmond their mother tongue. Poor Desmond had a terrible time with some words, even the most basic, but the effort was admirable.  
  
Though what happened next, Desmond did not expect. Malik had lightly smacked him upside the head with the roll of paper. A surprised cry was his response, Desmond tipping forth but caught himself by placing a hand on the pillows. He turned his head, eyes round and owlish, staring at Malik as if he had lost a few marbles.  
  
Which was highly unlikely, but still possible.  
  
"W...what was that for?" Desmond questioned, a hand raised and placed on the back of his head, finally getting himself to stand and face his host.  
  
"I do not need you pitying me nor do I need you to sulk." was the simple response. This had Desmond blink, confused for a slight moment before realizing what Malik was talking about.  
  
Malik still had his pride, even with an arm missing he could still kick some ass. Another thing was that the other seemed to like his company only when he wasn't moping and not doing the whole, 'Oh...poor me. The world's against me. Boo-hoo.' Upon truly realizing this, Desmond's face grew hot. God, was he really that dense? How did he not see that he'd just about fallen into a pit of depression?  
  
Returning his attention to Malik, Desmond felt his lips tug back into a soft smile. "Right. You're absolutely right."  
  
"Good. Now, eat something. We have a long day ahead of us."

* * *

Desmond stood still, glancing over his shoulder towards a tall building. Nothing there. Odd, he was sure he was being followed.  
  
He looked forth once more, holding onto a makeshift bag made of cloth, running his eyes over the food available for purchase. Malik had sent him to restock supplies, for once letting him go out on his own. Maybe this was a test, to see if he'd realized he was being followed, to have him prove once and for all that he is an assassin. That he was useful.  
  
This thought had his jaw clench, tightening his hold on the bag as he swallowed thickly. " _I...I would like..._ "  
  
Dammit. Why did it have to be so hard to just say what he wanted?  
  
 _Maybe I'm getting nervous..._ He veered to the side, swearing that he was indeed being followed. _...dammit._  
  
Desmond rose his hand, uncurling his fingers, counting off in Arabic in his head until he reached four. Nodding to himself, Desmond rose his head to look at the vendor. Said man giving him an odd look.  
  
" _Uh...four. I would like four._ " he spoke, feeling a bit out of place before handing over the money Malik had given him, soon placing what he'd bought into the bag. Desmond then held it close to his chest with one arm as the other waved to the vendor, wishing him a good day before turning around.  
  
Only to nearly jump out of his skin when he noticed a particular shade of gold staring back at him from the bench that the observer was sitting on. Desmond tightened his hold on the object in his possession, swallowing thickly before averting his gaze to where he'd ventured from. Maybe he could just ignore the other and head back to the bureau. It's not like he needed to stay here longer.  
  
No, he was not beating a retreat because he was kind of intimidated by the man's gaze. Not at all.  
  
With a fleeting glance to the bench, Desmond felt his stomach twist in a knot when the form that was originally there no longer existed.  
  
 _Maybe I'm seeing things...?_  
  
Shaking his head, reminding himself he needed to get back, Desmond turned on his heel and made his way back to the bureau. Yet the feeling from earlier returned, that he was being followed. Clenching his jaw, grabbing onto the top of the bag so its contents wouldn't spill, Desmond broke off into a sprint.


	9. insulted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Desmond has had enough of Altair's shit.)

Hawk-like  eyes zeroed in on his target, whom fled. They knew they were being followed, which pleased Altair in an odd way. He lunged over to another building, hand grabbing onto a crevice, hauling himself up to rest his feet on loose bricks. Altair then made his way up to the roof, scanning the crowd once he'd reached the top, his eyes narrowing underneath the shadows skittering over his face.  
  
Altair took a few steps forth, looking slowly from side to side. It couldn't be that hard to find the boy, surely.  
  
His lips turned downward slightly before noticing some movement on the roof across from his own. It was the person he'd been looking for, well, this made his search all the more easy. Altair quickly and quietly made his way over to an unfinished wall, pressing to it and peering around it to see the young hooded man survey his surroundings carefully.  
  
Malik must have taught him to do such, he assumed. To take to higher ground and try and scout out his enemy...or to avoid conflict easier.  
  
Altair's lips tugged up at the side once he saw the boy - Dezmund, his mind corrected - tighten his hold on the bag. Good. That meant that Desmond would be cautious with what he was doing.  
  
Or so, Altair thought he would.  
  
The young man just bolted, turning to jump to another, lower roof. At least he'd bent his knees to absorb the impact before standing and continuing his speedy trek back to the bureau.  
  
With a low 'tch,' Altair made his way to follow, one or two buildings behind where his prey was.  
  
Though Desmond hadn't stabbed him in the back during their first encounter, though he'd convinced Malik he wasn't a threat and even if Malik tried to Altair to see reason, to see that Desmond was simply a novice of the Creed...  
  
Altair just couldn't believe it. Even given those facts, it did little to lower his suspicions.  
  
That and Desmond resembled him. Moreso physically than in personality, it had taken Altair by surprise when he actually got a chance to look at him. Although it may seem a tad ridiculous how he didn't trust the other, he just didn't.  
  
Not fully at least.

* * *

Malik stood at the counter, bent over with his elbow resting on the wooden surface as he began to rub his forehead with a soft sigh.  
  
He'd expected his charge to be back by now with the food and other things he'd sent him out to retrieve. Just a simple, trivial, errand. Yet, here he was, still waiting...and worried. Yes, he was worried about Desmond. He still had yet to understand everything about their ways and language, still needed to learn about the area.  
  
Malik cursed lightly. He shouldn't have let the younger man go alone, even though Desmond assured him he'd be gone and back 'in the blink of an eye.' It was an odd expression and Malik had made a mental note to question him about that when he got back. Especially because he'd been blinking and Desmond had not returned as he'd said.  
  
Maybe Desmond had gotten lost? Maybe he'd been fumbling over their mother language? Or -  
  
Malik lowered his hand, features tense.  
  
Or the novice had gotten into a scrap with the guards. They had been picking fights with the civilians more than usual lately. Sure, Desmond had taken down a couple of guards the first day he was here but he'd also had Altair and his help to dispatch the rest. Taking on a group and possibly more just spelled disaster.  
  
 _I am going to look for him._ Pushing away from the counter, Malik turned and snatched his dagger off of a shelf's surface, slipping it into its sheath that was attached to his belt.  
  
He stepped around the counter and into the 'lounging area,' as Desmond had called it. Malik blinked once he'd caught sight of a shadow flying by the entrance he'd left open. This had Malik raise a brow before seeing a familiar form stop once he'd reached the entrance, leaping and slipping into the room, dropping onto his side painfully. A small roll before said form groaned from pain.  
  
"Dezmund?"  
  
Rolling over onto his back, a pair of chocolate irises peered over to Malik, a hand moving to hold onto his arm that he'd landed on. "Oh, uh, hey." he got out, lips parted and panting as Desmond closed his eyes. "...I..." He licked his lips, swallowing a moment after. "I got the food."  
  
Malik moved over, crouching down and taking hold of the bag with a raised brow. "Why did you run? Was that a guard chasing you?"  
  
Slowly, Desmond pushed to sit up, continuing to pant for a while longer before coughing. "No. I mean...I dunno. Maybe?" He turned his attention back up to the entrance, eyes widening once he caught sight of white. Immediately he scooted away, placing a hand on his chest, holding onto the fabric tightly. "Fuck! Shit. Don't do that!"  
  
Apparently he'd never get used to assassins popping up out of nowhere, Malik figured.  
  
With a sigh, he turned his attention to Altair, eyes narrowing. " _What do you want?_ "  
  
Malik was not pleased when he concluded that his guest had been running away from Altair. After all, their arrival was almost exactly at the same time and thinking back to the shadow he'd seen previously...  
  
Altair twisted his form, gripping the ledge and made his way down to stand in the room with the other two. Once both feet tapped the ground, he turned to face Malik, gaze then trailing over to an exhausted Desmond. With a slightly amused glimmer in amber orbs, he turned his attention back to an irritated Malik.  
  
" _Calm yourself, Malik,_ " he started, " _I wish no ill will. I just happened to be in the area and decided to come see how you and Dezmund were fairing._ "  
  
Altair took note of how Desmond tensed slightly once his name was said. Malik also noticed this, holding the bag out to him.  
  
"Go put this away." Malik ordered. Desmond pushed himself up to stand and took the sack, moving to leave the room with a soft exhale. As if relieved that he was tossed out of the room and conversation. Once Desmond was gone, Malik returned his attention to the man opposite him. " _Did you follow him? Altair, I already told you, the boy is trustworthy and means no harm._ "  
  
" _I am not so sure about that, Brother._ " Altair's eyes traveled over to where the one he'd pursued had gone. " _Something seems a bit off about him._ "  
  
Malik rose his hand to rub his temple. " _What makes you so sure of such?_ "  
  
" _Well..._ " His voice trailed off.  
  
Meanwhile in the back of the bureau, Desmond was putting the makeshift bag away. The things he'd bought put in their proper places and the money he hadn't spent on the counter by the small pouch where his host placed his spending money. He'd learned over the course of the time that he'd been there that Malik liked to count what hadn't been used and add it back into what he'd written down.  
  
It was odd, but effective, in Desmond's opinion.  
  
He slumped his shoulders with a soft exhale, tipping his head back as he rose a hand to push his hood back. It was at this moment he wished he was wearing less layers, if nothing else he wished he was back at home, in his apartment, where he could just walk around in his boxers.  
  
Yet, he had to remind himself, this wasn't the time to be thinking such things or streak down to undergarments he didn't have. Yeah, he only had one pair and now he'd been stuck with...well...  
  
Desmond blinked, his ears straining to catch that sound again. It wasn't loud but - he couldn't describe it.  
  
Turning, he made his way over to Malik's closet-of-sorts. It contained his old clothes, the ones from Abstergo, along with a few other pairs. Light clothes. Closing his eyes, Desmond reached up to undo the tie to his top layer, he'd begun to believe that the noise he'd heard had been nothing but something his imagination came up with. After all, the guards were a bit dense to even realize this was a hideout for assassins.  
  
Hell, if he were a guard he might have gotten a little curious at least. Then again, Desmond was glad he wasn't one.  
  
Curiosity killed the cat after all.  
  
Desmond reached down once he'd undone the tie, gripping the end of the shirt to tug it up, slipping off easily along with the hood that had been attached to it. He let out a huff once it was off fully, folding it and standing up a bit on his toes to slip it into the space dedicated to his clothes. Swallowing thickly, he began to cough again. Great. He was thirsty.  
  
This had him scowl, an exact replica of Altair's, and cursed. That's what he got for running.  
  
Breathing out slowly, Desmond made his way out to the front, blinking once he'd caught sight of Malik whom looked as if his feathers had been ruffled and he just looked angry beyond belief. Whatever he and Altair had been talking about it must have pushed the wrong buttons. Despite knowing this, Desmond snuck over as quietly as possible, peering from the doorway to see that Altair, too, looked a bit irked.  
  
What had transpired while he was away?  
  
" _Dezmund is a good man, Altair! Why must you insist on being so difficult?_ " Malik hissed, jaw clenching as his right hand curled into a fist.  
  
" _As I said, there is something about him that is unsettling._ " was the response given.  
  
" _I am sure that there is a lot that is unsettling about everyone you meet._ "  
  
" _I cannot explain it, Malik. I just don't trust him._ "  
  
A heavy sigh came from Malik before blinking and peering over his shoulder once his guest accidentally poked his head out too much, both men looking right at Desmond, whom now looked like a deer in headlights. Who knew he was now in trouble for eavesdropping on a conversation he barely understood in the first place.  
  
All Desmond caught was his name and something about trust...not trusting him. Really, Altair must have had a large stick shoved up his ass. _No, more like a tree,_ he corrected himself, chuckling on the inside at that thought. _Funny, I'm making fun of a killer and am still alive. Well...he can't read my mind..._  
  
"Dezmund."  
  
Blinking, he glanced over to Malik, seeing that he was being motioned to come into the room. Perhaps a bit reluctant but Malik turned his attention to Altair, who was frowning deeply.  
  
" _No. This conversation does not require his input._ " Altair scowled, crossing his arms as he kept his sights on Desmond as he made his way into the room. " _Malik..._ "  
  
" _If his presence is an issue then leave._ "  
  
Altair clenched his teeth, gripping his biceps tightly as his gaze was intent on Desmond. Said man raising a brow and then looking down as he brushed off invisible residue from his shirt's sleeve. That, right there, had Altair want to force Desmond to look at him. To stop hiding behind Malik, stop doing those ridiculous motions and - how Desmond's face showed each and every single emotion he was feeling.  
  
Desmond must have felt his gaze because the brown eyes he possessed raised to lock onto his own. " _...what?_ "  
  
This took him off guard a bit. Sure, he'd heard Desmond speak to the vendor but to be able to have somewhat of a conversation and that the other may just understand him enough by picking out certain words...  
  
" _You have been teaching him our language,_ " Altair directed this to Malik, who raised his hand to rest it on Desmond's shoulder. " _He may know our Creed but he is an outsider. He does not belong here._ "  
  
" _He is my responsibility, not yours. I do not believe you said you would take charge of him._ " Malik snipped, his hold on Desmond's shoulder tightening slightly. " _He has interesting stories to share and he may not tell me about how his Brotherhood is, but I do not think it is any different from ours._ "  
  
" _That boy still possesses his ring finger, he does not have a hidden blade, nothing to prove he is one of us._ " Altair hissed, jaw clenched. " _Nothing but empty promises that he is an assassin._ "  
  
Desmond blinked, catching about half of what had been said but he had a feeling he knew what was being said. Then this whole thing about how he had 'empty promises about being an assassin' came into play and that just managed to irritate him to the point where his discomfort vanished. He didn't give a shit if Altair could end his life with the hidden blade or take him down like Desmond was simply a tiny kitten.  
  
Hands clenched into fists, Desmond's expression revealed just how angry he'd become. "Quit being a dick!" he snarled, shrugging off Malik's hand before turning to storm out of the room.  
  
A moment later Malik was laughing, which caused Altair to blink out of his surprised state. Turning his attention to Malik, Altair blinked once again as if asking what Desmond had said.  
  
Malik placed his hand over his face, shoulders rocking until he slowly calmed down from his laughing fit. "I... _I believe he just insulted you._ " he got out through his chuckles.


	10. nature's beauty

Desmond hadn't spoken another word the rest of that day. Nor did Altair. Probably still a bit taken aback by the insult that had been tossed his way but not translated.  
  
Malik had decided to keep the man in the dark, which may have been a bad idea in the long run yet he truly did not care. Altair shouldn't have picked a fight with his charge, shouldn't have riled the young man up because it then meant that Malik would have a moody assassin in training on his hands - well, hand. Point was: Malik didn't like Desmond being angry and/or upset.  
  
It was a sad and disheartening sight to say the least. In it's own odd way it was also endearing.  
  
How Desmond was like a tiny bird puffing its chest out and ruffling its feathers, squawking and twittering in an irritated manner.  
  
Though, at this moment, Malik was putting his dagger back on the shelf while his comrade was settled on the batches of pillows, cleaning his blades and making sure all was organized and working properly. Altair seemed unsettled, his eyes distant even as his hand holding a rock ran along his sword to sharpen it. All that was heard was the sharpening of a blade and breathing. There were some sounds of the civilians bustling about, bantering and chatting, along with a few birds chirping.  
  
Desmond was resting in the back, on Malik's cot, nestled under a blanket. He'd drank some wine beforehand, making an odd comment of, "Hello, gorgeous," while doing so.  
  
Malik hadn't questioned his happiness to the beverage, seeing as it seemed to bring back pleasant memories.  
  
He rubbed his face, the quill he'd been writing with resting on the counter. Its ink having dried and the parchment before him adorned with thick lines and simple drawings, clearly a new map for the surrounding area. He didn't want to bother with it anymore, he would rather be talking to Desmond and teaching him.  
  
It was strange how he'd grown used to Desmond's presence, how the curious man would ask him about things, learn and even teach Malik in return. Even if it was just enhancing his vocabulary of the English language, Malik knew it would come in handy in the near future.  
  
Slowly, Malik turned his attention back to Altair once the metallic grinds ceased. The sight he was greeted with surprised him slightly, for Altair simply sat there with his gaze straight ahead. Altair's brows were creased, lips pursed in a thin line, hands' hold tight and his knuckles had turned a lighter shade than his naturally dark tone, golden irises narrowed slightly.  
  
Even if the other looked angry, the aura surrounding him was confusion, curiosity and a tinge of hurt. Noticing this had Malik raise a brow, he had to be seeing things, surly. There was no way that the 'almighty' Altair Ibn-La'Ahad could have been emotionally wounded by a plain jab that was said only from frustration. Fed up frustration but still. It's not like Desmond had meant it. Though Malik had the oddest feeling that that was only wishful thinking on his end.  
  
He turned to see that Desmond had risen from his resting state, standing there in the doorway with disheveled hair and dazed chocolate hues. Desmond rose his left hand, rubbing the side of his neck with a tired groan as he closed his eyes while his right moved to rid his eyes of remaining sleep. Yawning, Desmond then lowered his hands to blink once he noticed that Malik was watching him with an amused look.  
  
True, he had seen this sight a handful of times but it was still amusing. Especially when the other man's cheeks would turn a dark red from embarrassment like they were right at this moment.  
  
"Uh...hey."  
  
"Did you sleep well, Dezmund?" Malik questioned, turning his attention elsewhere, reaching out for the feather to dip it into the ink. He added more lines as he waited patiently for his answer, twirling his wrist at one point.  
  
"Yeah, I guess." Desmond shifted, his hands resting on his lower back, leaning back to stretch before walking around the counter to face Malik. Just to be polite. That and he was used to talking to Malik this way, perhaps more of a habit than anything. "So...what'd I miss?" He leaned forth to look at the map, eyes running over each line slowly and carefully.  
  
"Not much. Altair is going to be leaving tomorrow as far as I am concerned."  
  
Another dip into the black substance, back to the paper.  
  
"Oh..." He fell silent, cautiously turning his sights over to the assassin whom went back to sharpening his blade. "Hey, look," Desmond returned his attention to Malik, "I'm sorry about earlier. Guess I'm just -"  
  
Next thing Desmond knew was that the quill was put down, a calloused hand covering his mouth and that dark eyes were staring straight into his own. Malik's eyes narrowed slightly in warning, telling him to silence himself and not finish his sentence. Desmond's own widened from shock, breath caught in his throat as he then swallowed thickly, inhaling the scent of ink, earth and spices.  
  
"Hush, Dezmund, all is well. Do not worry yourself over it." Malik spoke, his voice soft enough so only the recipient could hear. After he'd received a nod, he lowered his hand to rest it against the wooden surface. "I don't want you to concern yourself over the matter. Altair is a grown man, he has probably heard worse."  
  
"Well, yeah, but -" Desmond snapped his mouth shut when Malik narrowed his eyes once again. "Sorry."  
  
There was no point in starting up a mindless dispute anyway.

* * *

Night had soon arrived, the only source of light coming from torches and candles.  
  
Desmond had poked his head out to peer into the lobby, brows crinkled from confusion once he saw no sign of his ancestor. Carefully and as quietly as possible, he made his way to the entrance that wasn't latched shut for the night. Which was odd since Malik liked to close the hatch when he was positive that no one would be coming or going, especially not this late at night.  
  
It was then that Desmond tensed, his hands curled into fists as he crept over to the fountain, cautious in case a guard may just have found the bureau and had gone to alert the others. Unlikely but still possible. Swallowing thickly, Desmond reached out to grab onto a loosened brick, placing his foot atop the faucet to aid him in his assent. He gripped the ledge, slowly raising his head to peer over and scout out the rooftop.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Desmond let out a heavy breath, relieved, and hauled himself up and over. Once he was out of the bureau, Desmond stood up straight and inhaled deeply while making his way forth until he was standing right in the middle as he cocked his head back to peer up at the vast skies. What he saw blew his mind. Billions upon billions of stars were in the sky, twinkling and shimmering brightly, in all their glory.  
  
His eyes widened, turning slowly with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  
  
Desmond had seen stars before, having gone to visit his grandparents in the country and whatnot but this? This could not compare. They were natural and there were more than in the future. Or, well, it was less polluted by factories and oil companies accidentally spilling and ruining the water. It was just all natural beauty.  
  
He soon paused in his stargazing once he heard what sounded like shoes scrapping against the wall. Turning on his heel sharply, Desmond blinked once he saw that Altair was lifting himself up onto the roof. He watched silently as the man dusted off his sleeves, observed as Altair rose a hand to push back his hood and swallowed when the other's eyes locked onto his own.  
  
Desmond couldn't tell if Altair was just as surprised as he was to see him, yet also felt his tongue poke out to lick his lips nervously, wondering if Altair was still angry about earlier. If he'd figured out exactly what Desmond had called him.  
  
"Hey, look, I -" Desmond's voice failed him, blinking once he noticed something adorning the side of Altair's face.  
  
 _Wait...is that...?_ He squinted to get a better look then flinched as he saw that Altair was bleeding from his temple. _Fuck. Did a guard get lucky or something?_  
  
Altair turned his head away, as if trying to divert Desmond's attention elsewhere, his lips curved downward in a stern frown. It didn't seem like he desired Desmond's worry which was more than a little irritating, even though Desmond should have suspected as much. All he could do at this moment was slump his shoulders and turn his gaze away.  
  
It didn't seem that there was a high chance Altair would let him worry openly. Not like Desmond was going to anyway, the other was a grown man and an assassin. He didn't need to be babied or fussed over.  
  
When he looked back over to Altair, Desmond blinked as he took note of how the other's back was to him, sitting on the ledge. Head tipped back and looking up at the stars just as he'd done previously. Letting out a heavy exhale, Desmond made his way over while also being mindful of the man's personal space. Desmond choose to stand a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, cocking his head back to take in nature's beauty once more.  
  
" _It is not as beautiful back where I come from,_ " he said, chocolate eyes turning to look over at his companion whom looked up at him.  
  
Funny how Altair's posture was almost exactly the same as when he sat on a bench to avoid detection.  
  
"You're not very social, y'know." was the next thing he said along with a chuckle added on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. The first ever real moment between Altair and Desmond. It may not seem like much, but a little goes a long way.


	11. forboding

A clash of steel rang out in the morning air, along with a grunt accompanying it. The series of clangs continued to go on for a while longer before there was a pained groan that rose from the depths of a man's chest as he lie on the ground, chest heaving with his head lolled back. The blade they'd once held a few feet away from their outstretched arm and open hand.  
  
Said male on the ground being Desmond Miles.  
  
His opponent stood before him, dagger held tightly in their grasp as they peered down at him with their lips parted. A tongue darted out to run over them before taking a step back and sheathing the blade. "You have gotten better, Dezmund." he praised before reaching his hand out for the other to take. "Let us take a break for a while."  
  
Nodding slowly, Desmond shifted to sit up on his elbows to then take hold of Malik's hand. Once hoisted up onto his two feet, he placed his opposite hand on a bent knee as he panted heavily. They'd been sparring for the past few hours. All upon his request, of course. His host had been rather uncertain and confused at the suggestion when it was presented, but agreed nonetheless.  
  
Plus, just as Malik had said, Altair had left the following day to head to Damascus for his next mission. Well, at least he had dressed his wound before leaving.  
  
Though Desmond was somewhat disappointed that even if they'd come to a truce last night, it seemed as if very little progress had been made. Altair didn't talk much amd most of the conversation was just...quiet. Pure, chilling, silence. It wasn't as if he'd hoped that Altair would be chatty, since that would most likely happen once Hell froze over, seeing as he didn't come off as a talkative person from the beginning or ever. Then again, it seemed reasonable given how he was raised and the circumstances.  
  
And how Malik didn't seem to want them to be left alone in a room for too long.  
  
Not that Desmond could blame his host for acting as such since that little 'dick' outburst. Speaking of said incident, it had been about another week since that ordeal, so Desmond truly had begun to lose track of the days he'd been with Malik. He didn't mind Malik's company, not at all, he really did enjoy it.  
  
"Yeah, sure." Releasing Malik's hand, he rose to his full height, only to cringe when his muscles screamed their protests. "...I think I pulled something."  
  
A chuckle was his friend's response. Yes, they had become friends. Shocking, Desmond knew, taking into account how many days he'd stayed here that would have prevented this 'fast-friends' thing, but no. It didn't. Hell, how many days has it been?  
  
He watched as Malik headed towards the back, into his room to then return with a bottle of wine, much to Desmond's relief. Although he was starting to miss the taste of water - even if water didn't have a taste. True, the water in this time was possibly contaminated or something but wine every single day was starting to kill his tastebuds. Funny because he was a bartender and he would drink with customers from time to time.  
  
Shaking his head vigorously, Desmond rose a hand to rub his face, sliding his fingers through his hair a bit harshly a moment later. He had to stop thinking about home, least he worry Malik and that just wouldn't do at all.

* * *

After what felt like years, Desmond had finally managed to parry almost each blow thrown his way without being knocked down or stumbling backwards. His right hand swapped the short sword to his left, twisting his wrist just in time to stop the strike that would have most likely sliced his leg. Gritting his teeth, Desmond furrowed his brows as he shifted his foot to hold his ground while his teacher applied more pressure.  
  
His jaw clenched, knuckles turning white before Desmond jerked his hand, shoving the opposing sword away. He strifed back some feet, lips parted with soft pants and sweat sliding down the side of his face.  
  
Hell, Malik seemed to be getting more aggressive with him the more he progressed. Which wasn't making this any easier, yet wasn't that the point? It wasn't like the guards would go easy on him or that he'd have back-up like last month.  
  
When Desmond had come to the conclusion that hoping to be sent back was just wishful thinking, he'd decided he would just prove his worth and do what he could. Training, running errands, helping Malik sort out the maps, continue his lessons on their culture and language, everything that Desmond could do he did. No questions asked.  
  
Altair hadn't paid a visit at all, sent elsewhere instead of Jerusalem.  
  
Even though Malik had assured him that Altair was fine when he'd asked, Desmond wasn't so sure about that.  
  
A gasp came from him, barely blocking the blow to his side, needing to place his right hand's palm against the end of the short sword to stop the strike entirely. Gritting his teeth with a hiss, Desmond then realized that he'd spaced out and buried himself into his thoughts.  
  
It seemed like Malik had noticed this as well since he pulled his blade back and eyed his charge with a questioning gaze.  
  
Swallowing, Desmond slowly pulled his cut hand away from his weapon, clenching his hand into a fist in an attempt to cease the bleeding. His eyes fell halfway shut, looking down on the blood stained steel, watching as the crimson fluid slipped downward and dripped. Desmond then turned his attention to his hand, seeing it do the same.  
  
"I...uh..."  
  
"Dezmund," Malik's tone was sharp, almost receiving a cringe from him, "do not lie to me. I can tell you are worried about something."  
  
Desmond rose his gaze to lock onto charcoal, feeling frozen in place with the look he was getting. It wasn't disappointment from becoming distracted in the midst of a duel, no, rather it was one of minor frustration. Like a parent who kept telling their child there were no monsters hiding under the bed for over more than a year. It was a look that had him avert his gaze to the side, to the floor, anywhere except for where his mentor stood.  
  
"Sorry, it won't happen again, let's just st-"  
  
"No."  
  
This had Desmond blink, whipping his head to stare at Malik with wide eyes.  
  
"Put the sword down, Dezmund, and go rest."  
  
"But I -" Desmond snapped his trap shut, deciding it best not to argue with his friend. Nothing good would come of it anyway. So, with the utmost reluctance, he made his way over to the weapon's rack to place the sword in its proper place. "...all right."  
  
He then went to go get the supplies to bandage up his hand.  
  
All the while, Malik watched Desmond with a concerned expression beginning to surface once he knew Desmond was out of the room. He didn't know what had distracted him, that was true, but what Malik did know was that he couldn't do anything to put Desmond's thoughts to rest. It seemed as if his student was holding back, bottling up everything, as if  Desmond couldn't confide in him.  
  
Frustrating. It was downright frustrating that he was left in the dark, guessing what was dwelling on Desmond's mind. Then again he was worried as well, wondering just when he would be found out in housing a man whom possessed such likeness to Altair. When someone besides he or said assassin would run into Desmond.  
  
Closing his eyes, Malik shook his head slowly before making his way to put his own weapon away to then turn and see his guest return, hand bandaged up.  
  
"Dezmund..." Malik paused once Desmond's eyes lifted to lock onto his own, taken aback by how the brown had melted to a darker chocolate. Surprised by the seriousness that was lashing about in Desmond's irises. With a slow inhale and exhale, he started once more, "Dezmund, what is on your mind?"  
  
This had him avert his gaze, pursing his lips with his thin brows knitting themselves together. "It's just...I just think something bad's gonna happen soon. Or it has. I - well...I dunno. Something doesn't feel right, y'know?" While saying this, Desmond had crossed an arm under the opposite's elbow, hand raised and twisting about. As if, in doing so, it would show what he meant.  "I know it sounds crazy but I'm serious."

* * *

Altair planted his back against a wall, hand placed firmly against his side as he grit his teeth, golden hues whipping towards the opening of the dirty alleyway. His lips were parted slightly, panting heavily with a cringe and tightening his hold on the fresh gash beneath.  
  
A guard had taken him by surprise, much to his disgust, and got him good. The wound was oozing blood still and Altair didn't have much time to do a minor patch-up that would hold until he reached the bureau to then get better medical attention to the gash. Just thinking about it had him press his palm even closer than physically possible. Which was mostly a failed attempt to stop any further blood flow than what was being held off with how he was holding it now.  
  
Altair closed his eyes halfway, listening to the bells chime in the distance. Listening as guards hustled and rushed about to try and track him down, hearing people talk amoungst themselves and the gossip spreading about on how Abu'l Nuqoud had been assassinated.  
  
If he could risk it, the wounded man would have chuckled.  
  
This scene played out a lot during his years of this profession, all the same threats, same chatter and same blows being given and taken. Mostly predictable when he thought about it.  
  
Though, this time, it felt different. Like an out of body experience. He recalled a time when he would feel as if someone else was with him, that they wouldn't let anything hurt him if it was within their power. A guardian angel of sorts, or perhaps a demon.  
  
He swallowed thickly, closing his eyes as he placed most of his weight back against the wall. He knew he had to get back to the bureau, hand in the feather soaked in his prey's blood and rest - but, honestly, he wasn't sure if he'd make it if the guards surrounded him as they had once he'd finished talking to Abu'l. Not that this was anything new but with how many there were, even with the skills he possessed, it was a task to get out of the area.  
  
Altair then caught sight of a group of scholars once he opened his eyes. Relief washed over him as he pushed away from the wall and made his way over to them.


	12. contemplation

At the sound of someone entering the bureau, the rafiq turned his attention away from his current assignment. "Ah, welcome ba-" His words came to an abrupt halt at the sight that Altair presented. The man was panting, looked like a mess and his garb was drenched in blood. "We should patch that up." When he saw Altair nod and head towards the nest of pillows, he headed towards the back to gather up supplies to complete the task now at hand.  
  
Though once Altair reached the cushions, his legs gave out on him, collapsing onto the soft surface below with a grunt. His left hand was outstretched, keeping him from falling flat on his face as he closed his eyes. Gritting his teeth, Altair sucked in a breath before slowly inching his way to turn so he could sit up properly. He turned his attention towards where the bureau leader had gone to see that the man was hurrying over with a bowl, towel, needle and thread.  
  
After placing the objects down, the rafiq gestured for Altair to remove his clothes so he could get to the injury better and be sure he got all of them, if there were more.  
  
With a deep breath, Altair went about undoing the clasp to the dagger's holster, closing his eyes as it pulled at the gash. His right hand took hold of the leather strap resting on his shoulder, pulling it off and away, placing the holder down on next to him. A moment later he began to remove his bracer, hidden blade coming off next, though he was rather reluctant to do so.  
  
Altair would never admit it but without the comforting weight of the blade, he felt vulnerable.  
  
Once they were set aside, Altair undid the belt and grabbed onto the sash to unwind it. Next was his remaining weapons and tunic then his grey long-sleeved shirt. Folding them, his jaw ticked as his wound throbbed. It was frustrating how he'd allowed this to happen - accident or not. Golden eyes rose to stare at the wall before him, eying the fountain with his lips pursed.  
  
The bureau leader had waited patiently as his comrade did as instructed, biting the end of the needle so he wouldn't lose it as he submerged the rag. Pulling it out, the rafiq dabbed, gently, at the injury to rid of the crimson that was staining and slowly receding. Which was good, it wouldn't be good if Altair kept bleeding more than he had.  
  
That also meant that Altair wouldn't be leaving any time soon.  
  
When he was sure most of the blood was gone, he put the towel back into the bowl and took the needle from between his teeth to slip the thread through. The rafiq then set about to stitch Altair's injury, recieving a grunt at first then absolute silence as he continued his task.  
  
As his brother in arms was focused on the procedure of sewing him back up, Altair's eyes fell shut while he let his mind drift off to contemplate what Abu'l had said to him just before he struggled for one last breath. Before death took him into its embrace and dragged him into the depths.

* * *

"So this is about vengeance?"  
  
"No. Not vengeance." the man frowned, looking a little disheartened at this accusation. "But my conscious. How could I finance a war in service to the same God that calls me an 'abomination?'"  
  
Altair's hold tightened on the front of the merchant's robes, tugging at the fabric as he clenched his jaw slightly while mulling over Abu'l's answer. His knuckles turned a pigment lighter than his usual tone due to the grip he had. "If you do not serve Saladin's cause, then whose?"  
  
"In time, you will come to know them." Abu'l's lips tugged up in the tiniest mention of amusement with how confused Altair seemed to be now. "I think, perhaps, you already do."  
  
"Then why hide? And why these dark deeds?"  
  
"Is it so different from your own work?" the merchant prodded, his eyes locked onto golden irises, gaze intense and challenging. "You take the lives of men and women, strong in the conviction that their deaths will improve the lots of those left behind: a minor evil for a greater good." A bitter chuckle rose from the depths, coughing a bit though his lips were curved into a smile. "We are the same!"  
  
Altair's eyes widened, thankful that his hood obscured the sight from his dying target once he lowered his head. "No!" he hissed, his left hand loosening its hold to then release the purple robe, turning his head so as to not look down on Abu'l any longer. "We are nothing alike!"  
  
"Ah...but I see it in your eyes. You doubt." He noticed how Altair's neck muscles tensed, his right hand tightening out of reflex. "You cannot stop us..."  
  
Abu'l's eyes dulled, voice growing hoarse, his strength fading as his head slowly fell back to rest on the bloodied tiles.  
  
"We will have our 'New World.'"

* * *

Altair wondered who Abu'l was talking about. How could he know this person yet not know who they were? He felt like he was getting nowhere, as if he was taking two steps back for each forth. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. Not in the slightest. It was as if he was a dog chasing his own tail, though the tail was actually his thoughts. Trying to find an answer with no solid leads.  
  
All the Templars spoke in riddles. Or so they seemed to be.  
  
He was missing a key component, he was sure of it. He needed to settle this storm, needed answers, needed to be reassured that what he was doing was right. That he was nothing like Abu'l. Nothing like the Templars.  
  
Altair decided he needed to ask Al Mualim the questions he, himself, couldn't answer.  
  
His eyes opened, noticing that the bureau leader had finished stitching him up and was behind his counter, looking over a map spread out on the wooden surface with a candle lit. It was dark outside, which surprised him slightly. It seemed as if he'd been too lost in thought to realize how much time had passed, how long he'd been sitting there without saying his thanks to the kind treatment.  
  
"...thank you, brother."  
  
A chuckle was his answer. "Rest, Altair. You will not be going anywhere for some time."  
  
Not exactly something he needed to be reminded of, though Altair knew the other meant well. He exhaled slowly, moving to pull on his long sleeved shirt so he didn't feel the chill biting at his senses any more than it already was. Rubbing his left wrist after the shirt was on, Altair's eyes swept his surroundings to see that his equipment was placed in the corner nearest him.  
  
Pleased that they were close, he turned his attention up towards the grate.  
  
Stars filled the sky, looking as if they'd continue going on for miles and even more than that. Forever. _"It is not as beautiful back where I come from."_  
  
He closed his eyes halfway, forearms resting on his thighs and legs crossed. The injured man wondered if that was really true and, if so, what did it look like from where Desmond hailed from. Altair had noticed how Desmond had sounded...happy when he said 'beautiful.' As if this sight was uncommon and rare. Perhaps it was.  
  
Altair's right arm shifted, drumming his fingers against his knee as a new thought came to him.  
  
Why had he saved Desmond?  
  
Altair's fingers paused, the tips resting on his leg as he furrowed his brows. Indeed, why had he? It wasn't as if he was obligated to help some random person who was leaping to their death, who had done something so damn suicidal. Then again, Desmond preformed a Leap of Faith - something only assassins knew. Though the jump was a bit miscalculated.  
  
Desmond had even convinced Malik he was one of their brothers, although from someplace far away. Malik. He convinced Malik. Which was a difficult thing to do since the man was probably the most stubborn person Altair had ever known.  
  
Maybe that's why he didn't feel he could trust Desmond...?  
  
No. That wasn't it.  
  
Raising his left hand, Altair ran his fingers through his short, brown, locks.  
  
That wasn't why, Altair knew. It was probably because whenever he looked at the other that something was pushing at the back of his head, telling him he had to trust the boy. As if he chose not to then something terrible would happen. That Desmond was there for him, would save him - He scowled at the thought, fingers lightly gripping his hair with a huff. Save him? From what?  
  
There wasn't anything he needed saving from.  
  
 _"Dezmund is a good man, Altair! Why must you insist on being so difficult?"_  
  
Lowering his hand, Altair moved to lay on his back, returning his attention to the stars. Eventually, he closed his eyes, breathing in and out slowly.  
  
Maybe Malik was right.


	13. disturbance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of...fast. You'll see what I mean when you read it. I also had some problems figuring out where to put some scenes alongside how to end it. So this is what happened as a result.

Many days had passed since Abu'l's assassination, the guards having become lax after the first three weeks.  It wouldn't do to stay tense and make brash decisions that could backfire on them and lose favor with the civilians. Although that alliance of sorts was tedious enough to begin with. Not that a certain Altair minded since it meant that there were more people that could help him.  
  
The rafiq had made sure that Altair's wound healed nicely as these days went, the gash beginning to scab over and soon he could move without cringing.  
  
Altair placed his right hand against the cushion below him and pushed up to stand. As much as he appreciated the rest, he couldn't continue sitting around when he had to report his success to Al Mualim and then go in search of the next target. Reaching for his equipment, Altair attached them to his person before turning his gaze over to the rafiq.  
  
"I will be taking my leave now."  
  
The man lifted his head, giving Altair his utmost attention then nodded. "Safety and peace be upon you, brother."  
  
"And to you as well." He offered a curt nod of his own before Altair turned to ascend the wall to get to the roof.

* * *

Altair leaned forward on his steed, the reigns clasped tightly in his fists, and spurred the stallion on with a flick of his wrist. The horse galloped, sprinting toward Masyaf without much to get in their way and whenever there was, the steed simply bounded over it. Altair pressed his lips into a thin line as he watched his home come into view. He knew he intended on asking Al Mualim about the Templars and if they were connected somehow, but he hadn't exactly thought over how he'd broach the subject.  
  
Besides that, Altair had no idea if he would tell him.  
  
He knew better than to push if it came down to it, since he was still on the edge of a fine line. Altair wasn't blind, nor was he deaf, and he knew the Brotherhood had been upset over his life being spared. After all, who in their right mind would spare him, a 'traitor?' Who knew when he'd do it again? If Al Mualim deemed it so, Altair would be publicly executed and would not survive this time around.  
  
Blinking, he saw the gates come into view and leaned back, pulling the reigns back as well with a, " _Whoa._ "  
  
The stallion slowed to a languid pace, trotting up to the entrance and panting from the exertion. Altair took one of his hands off the reigns and stroked the steed's neck slowly. After a moment, he gave a firm pat before pulling into the stable and swinging his leg around to dismount. The horse stared at him for only a few brief seconds before it nickered and turned away to gnaw at some hay.  
  
Altair turned to leisurely stroll through the settlement as he made his way to the Brotherhood's stronghold. Soon realizing after a moment that there seemed to be more people wandering the market place than the last time he was here. Humming, Altair kept his eyes forth and continued on his way. All the while hoping he would not run into Abbas, not anywhere near being in the mood to deal with his jeering words that at times seemed worse than Malik's.  
  
Of course, Altair knew why Abbas despised him and he couldn't say he blamed him.  
  
However, that train of thought vanished once he reached the peak and noticed how quiet it was. Not deathly so, but close enough. The novices were in the ring training, the clash of steel reverberating in the walled in area and Rauf shouting instructions alongside encouragement. The other assassins talked amoungst themselves quietly, yet didn't dare raise their voices. There was tension in the air and Altair tensed, muscles bunching in preparation for whatever was going to be sprung.  
  
It got worse when he entered the building and made his way up the stairs, not missing how Al Mualim's voice carried throughout the room.  
  
"- go. Make haste and return as soon as you have word of what is happening."  
  
"Of course."  
  
Altair jerked to a stop at the top of the stairs, eyes narrowed after the shock wore off and turned to see Abbas make his way down the second staircase. He frowned, wondering just what he had overheard. Altair turned his attention to Al Mualim and made his way toward his mentor once motioned forth.  
  
"Come, Altair. I would have news of your progress."  
  
"I have done as you asked."  
  
"Good. Good." He paused for a moment, running an analytic eye over Altair's features. "I sense your thoughts are elsewhere. Speak your mind."  
  
Well, that certainly saved him the trouble of figuring out how to bring the subject up. Now, with permission, the words flowed out in a tense, frustrated fashion. "Each man I am sent to kill speaks cryptic words to me. Each time I come to you for answers, each time you only give me riddles in exchange." Altair flexed his jaw, pausing briefly. "But no more."  
  
"Who are you to say, 'no more?'" Al Mulaim swung his hand to the side in outrage, even though he kept his composure.  
  
"I'm the one who does the killing," he answered with what he thought was blatantly obvious. "If you want it to continue, you will speak straight with me for once." As he said this, Altair kept a careful eye on Al Mualim's movements. Watching as he began to walk around the desk, how he looked toward the bookcase to likely reign in his temper that Altair had no doubt sparked before returning his focus to him.  
  
"Tread carefully, boy." Al Mualim held up his hands, as if doing so would placate Altair. "I do not like your tone."  
  
"And I do not like your deception!"  
  
"I have given you a chance to restore your lost honor!" His tone was one a parent would use on a child and it grated on Altair's nerves.  
  
He grit his teeth. "Not lost, taken! By you! And then you sent me to fetch it again like some _damn dog_!"  
  
Al Mulaim reached for his sword, pulling it from atop the table and eyed Altair as if he was going to strike. Like a viper coiling up to then lunge in for the kill. "It seems I'll need to find another." He rose his other hand, pointing at Altair condescendingly. "A shame...you showed great potential."  
  
"I think if you had another you'd have sent him long ago."  
  
Altair didn't know where this surge of...power came from. This sudden urge to rebel and demand answers when normally he wouldn't dare question. It was strange, odd and he wondered if perhaps it had to do with that feeling he'd had weeks prior.  
  
"You said the answer to my question would arise when I no longer needed to ask it. So I will not ask. I _demand_ you tell me what binds these men."  
  
He noticed Al Mualim falter for a moment before he sighed.  
  
"Ah, what you say is true." He sounded defeated, unable to continue this charade. Al Mualim lowered his weapon, walking toward the bookcase and lowered his other hand. "These men are connected by a blood oath, not unlike our own."  
  
"Who are they?"  
  
Al Mualim walked back to the desk, setting the blade down with a grimace. " _Non nobis Domine, non nobis._ "  
  
Altair paused for a moment before it dawned on him. "Templars."  
  
He nodded, pivoting to face Altair as he held up his right hand. "Now you see the true reach of Robert de Sable."  
  
"All of these men, leaders of cities, commanders of armies."  
  
"All pledge allegiance to his cause." Al Mualim waved his hand to the side, disgust evident in his tone.  
  
Even with this bit of information, it still didn't add up.  
  
"Their works are not meant to be viewed on their own, are they? But as a whole." Altair furrowed his brow, speaking softly as he mulled it over. "What do they desire?"  
  
"Conquest!" Al Mualim gestured to the side, his features set in stone and his gaze iced over. "They seek the Holy Land not in the name of God, but for themselves!"  
  
 _But wait..._ Altair pressed his lips into a thin line. _It does not explain a few of the others._  
  
"What of Richard? Salahuddin?"  
  
"Any who oppose the Templars will be destroyed. Be assured they have the means to accomplish it." He spoke as if it were final and that nothing would change.   
  
"Then they must be stopped." Altair sneered, his hands flexing and curling into loose fists.  
  
"That is why we do our work, Altair. To ensure a future free of such things."  
  
"Why did you hide the truth from me?" He was sure he hid his betrayal very well. Physically, at the very least.  
  
"That you might pierce the veil yourself." Al Mualim closed his eyes for a moment, turning away from Altair and taking a step back before opening his eyes. "Like any task, knowledge precedes action." He held up both hands, lifting one then the other. "Information learned is more valuable than information given. Besides, your recent behavior had not inspired much confidence." Al Mualim lowered his head slightly, turning his gaze to the urn on the table and frowned.  
  
Altair looked elsewhere. "I see."  
  
"Altair, your mission has not changed. Merely the context within which you perceive it."  
  
"And armed with this knowledge, I might better understand those Templars that remain." Saying it made him believe it. Gave him the confidence to keep going and aid him in his upcoming trials. It soothed the ache from needing to demand and be reminded of his follies.  
  
"Is there anything else you want to know?"  
  
Now that he mentioned it...  
  
"What about the treasure Malik retrieved from Solomon's Temple? Robert seemed desperate to have it back."  
  
Al Mualim avoided his eyes for the briefest of moments and Altair wasn't sure how to feel about it.  
  
"In time, Altair, all will become clear. Just as the role of the Templars has revealed itself to you, so too will the nature of their treasure. For now, take comfort in the fact that it is not in their hands, but ours."  
  
For some reason, it didn't bring him any. Just like how Desmond's sudden appearance put him off when they met. However, he had a role to play, and Altair couldn't risk exposing Desmond to this. Nor could he betray Malik's waning trust. If he had any to start with. "If this is your desire."  
  
"It is. You are restored another rank. Take back your weapon." He gestured to the table. "Use it to bring honor to the Brotherhood." Altair moved toward the desk, reaching out to take the throwing knives holster to carry extra on his person. He twisted around, securing it and made his way toward the staircase. "Altair, before you go...?"  
  
He paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Yes?"  
  
"How did you know I wouldn't kill you?"  
  
Altair barely managed to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Truth be told, Master, I didn't. I took a leap of faith."  
  
With that, Altair looked forth and ventured down the steps without looking back.

* * *

**Three weeks previous**

* * *

When Desmond work up that morning he knew something was horribly wrong. He couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly, but he knew better than to tell Malik in case it was a false alarm. It could just be the heatwave that hit Jerusalem a few days ago. Hopefully. Desmond didn't want to chance getting horribly ill now when there's no pharmacy to run to for medication.  
  
Then again, after what happened in Abstergo, Desmond wasn't sure if he could stomach it.  
  
He rolled onto his side, away from the sun and stared at the doorway in a daze. His eyes were clouded over with remnants of sleep and poked his tongue out to wet his chapped lips. Desmond briefly thought about how he wished he had some chap-stick but shook his head. He pushed to sit up on his elbow, rubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath through his nose.  
  
It smelled strongly of ink and spices and Desmond wondered why Malik didn't wake him up. Since asking Malik to train him, he'd been insistent on Desmond being awake when he was. Which he could understand. If Desmond wanted to learn so badly, and he did, then he should adjust his schedule to that of an assassin's.  
  
Or just Malik's. Desmond had no idea what Altair's hours were. Hell, anyone's really.  
  
Desmond lowered his hand from his face and blinked a couple times before returning his attention to the doorway. "Malik?"  
  
He waited a full minute without a word and got up to make his way into the room, scanning the whole area before heading into Malik's bedroom. Desmond pushed the curtain aside and frowned when he didn't see Malik anywhere. After a moment, he made his way to the desk and swayed once a sudden wave of vertigo washed over him. Desmond sucked in a breath and slapped his hand onto the wooden surface.  
  
Closing his eyes, Desmond rose his other hand to cover his face and hunched over with a groan. Slowly, his hand on the desk slid forth, soon it lost its traction and his elbow slammed down. Hard. Hissing from the pain, Desmond squeezed his eyes shut and took deep, deep breaths to calm his racing heart.  
  
 _Oh God. I'm gonna be sick..._  
  
He swallowed the lump in his throat and dug his nails into his palm, shaking from head to toe as he tried to remain standing. Last thing he needed was Malik finding him sprawled out on the floor.  
  
Desmond grit his teeth, jaw clenched hard. _No. No. Fuck. Don't throw up._  
  
As soon as it hit him, it passed after what felt like hours and Desmond wasn't sure how to feel about that. He knew he wasn't sick. Couldn't be. Despite the fact infection was common and easy to spread in general, Malik was as healthy as a horse. Not to mention Desmond was around him the most. So there was no way. Not a chance in Hell.  
  
It's the heatwave.  
  
He chose not to mention this to Malik either.

* * *

By the time Malik had returned, Desmond had been pouring over the document Malik had left out to dry. He couldn't read most of it, but got the jist of what was on it. Malik didn't seem to mind once he saw Desmond and waved off Desmond's apology. "I left it out, what else would you have done with it?" was all he said.  
  
Desmond helped him put away the things he'd gotten while he was out and munched on an apple as Malik explained the necessity of an assassin losing their ring finger. He didn't go into extreme detail, but Desmond felt his stomach twist in sympathy. Then again, he asked and Malik delivered.  
  
"You don't think I'll have to go through that, do you?"  
  
Malik stopped mid-stride and rose a brow as he regarded him. "Are you implying that you are interested in joining us?"  
  
Desmond pressed his lips into a thin line and scratched the back of his head. "I dunno. I mean...if someone finds out you're hiding me and stuff then -" His voice trailed off the second he saw the look on Malik's face. He threw up his hands in his defense. "Not that I'd throw you under the bus or anything!"  
  
 Malik narrowed his eyes. "Do not speak such nonsense, Dezmund. No one will force you to do what you do not want to. If you do not wish to then so be it."  
  
"Oh." He looked down on the apple and bit his lower lip. "Okay. Thanks, I, uh, guess."  
  
"You do not sound convinced."  
  
Desmond flicked his gaze up for a brief second before focusing on the fruit again.  
  
"Dezmund," Malik's tone was stern yet it was easy to catch the concern laying beneath, "did someone force you to do something?"  
  
"I..." He tightened his hold and grimaced. "I don't want to talk about it." He took a bite and chewed for a minute just to fill the silence. "I'm fine. Just...I'm not used to someone looking out for me like you do."  
  
Desmond made a protesting sound when Malik placed his hand on his head and caught sight of the small, sincere smile tugging at the corner of Malik's mouth.  
  
"Think nothing of it, Dezmund."

* * *

"Shit!"  
  
Desmond stumbled back and tripped, slamming into the ground. Hard. He threw up his arms to block out the sun's rays and he screwed his eyes shut as if it were a physical blow. Turning his head away, Desmond rolled onto his stomach and grabbed at his hood to tug it over his head.  
  
What the _fuck_? All he did was walk out of the bureau and turn to look at the ceiling, only to be blinded by the natural lighting not even a second later. It was as if he'd been staring directly at the sun for years. As impossible as that may be, Desmond felt relief once his face was shadowed.  
  
It wasn't entirely pleasant, but it soothed the pain he'd felt earlier.  
  
Desmond rubbed his temples, eyes still shut and he took a minute to breathe. He was glad Malik was out restocking his supplies and hadn't witnessed this. It was worse than the incident four days ago. Much, much worse. Like he would have gone blind if he'd stared outside for just a second longer than he had.  
  
He bit the inside of his cheek and ever-so-slowly opened his eyes. The shadow eased the brightness a smidge, just enough for Desmond to squint. His head felt like it was splitting in two and he felt ill.  
  
Desmond knew that he wasn't dying, but nothing explained what this was.  
  
 _No._ He closed his eyes and breathed in deep. _It's a migraine. You've had these before. You're fine._  
  
"I'm fine." Desmond pressed the tips of his fingers in harder as his brow scrunched. "I'm fine." His hands slowly moved to run over his cheeks, exhaling shakily from what little cold his fingers could offer his heated skin.

* * *

Malik found out. Of course he did. It was only inevitable that he'd catch Desmond in a daze where he stood one day and see the agonized pain etched in his eyes when Desmond tried to pass it off as nothing.  
  
If Malik had to be honest, he was surprised that he hadn't seen it sooner. Even if Desmond had tried his damnest to hide it. However, a week and a day in ended up with him tripping up and the cat was out of the bag.  
  
Desmond's skin felt like it was on fire and was tingling like crazy. As if being pricked by small pins and needles. It was driving him up a wall and, the worst of it was, Desmond still had no clue as to why he felt this way. His assumption on a simple migraine had been wrong since it hadn't gone away and he couldn't figure out what else it could be.  
  
During the remainder of whatever this was, Malik had situated Desmond in his room and told him not to move unless he felt he could without difficulty. Some days it was so bad that Desmond couldn't even if he wanted to. Other times, he'd walk around the bureau, help Malik with whatever he could or try to go outside. However, Malik tried keeping Desmond inside the bureau at all costs, away from the sun, and made sure to make him rest whenever Desmond started to sway on his feet.   
  
Desmond hated that Malik had to watch him like a hawk, even if his glances were brief but thorough. It made him feel like a child again and that was the last thing he wanted.  
  
He sat up in the bed, pressing his elbows against his knees and cupping his face in his hands while taking in deep, steadying breaths. He felt like he was burning up and the natural heat wasn't helping matters any. In fact, it only seemed to make it worse and he was parched. Desmond groaned, coughing a second later and doubled over to curl into a ball, the sheets bunching up as he did so.  
  
Tears stung his eyes and they burned like a bitch. He barely had any sense beyond the pain he was feeling, but he felt the pressure of a hand on his back and how it rubbed clockwise. A voice - _Malik's_ \- spoke, soft and reassuring, and told him to, "Calm down, remember to breathe." Going on to say that it was all right, he can get through this.  
  
But God, did it hurt like Hell. His whole body ached and Desmond had the vague notion that somewhere in there he must have whimpered.  
  
Malik grabbed the cloth hanging over the edge of the bowl he'd brought and dipped it into the water within. He then took it out and patiently urged Desmond to tip his head back so he could wipe away the sweat clinging to his skin. Malik frowned as his instructions were followed and gently dabbed around Desmond's face. His cheeks were ruddy, a pleading sound escaping whenever Malik removed the cloth for too long.  
  
"Malik," Desmond opened his eyes halfway, brows knitted together as he stared up at him imploringly. "I...I feel like I'm dying."  
  
He shushed him, dunking the cloth once again and pressing it against the side of Desmond's neck. "You are not dying."  
  
Desmond closed his eyes again, leaning against the rag as he breathed in and out slowly. _It hurts. It hurts, it hurts..._  
  
"It will pass, Dezmund."  
  
 _It hurts._  
  
"It will pass."  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with me?"  
  
There was a moment of silence before, "I do not know."

* * *

Malik walked out of the market to head back to the bureau, his makeshift bag in hand full of various kinds of food. Desmond had been having trouble eating lately. He'd started picking at things as if he'd lost his appetite because of his sickness of the past two and a half weeks. Doing such has made Desmond lose weight and looking frail. Almost as if he'd break at the slightest touch.  
  
It made Malik worry that Desmond might not be able to shake it off. This wasn't normal, not in the slightest, and that bothered him. How in the world could he help Desmond if he didn't even know what was **wrong**?  
  
He turned a corner, tightening his grip on the bag in his agitation and snarled at the hand they were dealt.  
  
It reminded him of how he'd lost Kadar and the helplessness he'd felt as he held Kadar as he bled out. Reminded him of how he had been forced to let go. Now, if the Gods wished, Malik would be forced to watch Desmond's health decline until his last breath.  
  
It infuriated him.  
  
Malik narrowed his eyes once he caught sight of some beggars and cut through an alleyway to avoid them. He didn't like how this was making him spend more time away from Desmond. It wasn't good and each and every second was crucial.  
  
He needed to get Desmond to rest up.  
  
He needed to get Desmond to eat something.  
  
He needed Desmond to get _better_.  
  
He couldn't go through losing someone twice.  
  
Malik cut through another alley, picking up the pace and broke into a slow jog once he saw the bureau come into view. The bag swung at his side, rhythmically beating against his leg. He was a good ten feet away from the secret entrance when an earsplitting scream pierced the skies. It was gut-wrenching and full of so much fear that it caused Malik to jerk to an abrupt stop.  
  
Another wail, in a higher pitch, caused his eyes to widen once he realized just who was screaming as if the hounds of Hades were at their heels.  
  
Malik raced toward the entrance and grunted as he forced it open with his shoulder. He dropped the bag just as the door swung shut behind him and began searching for Desmond. Malik walked into the guest area, the pillows barren and untouched. He made his way toward the bureau and called out, "Dezmund!" as he did.  
  
There was a crash from the back room and a pained, gasped out, "Malik?" answered his call. However, before Malik could ask what happened, Desmond cried his name out again. This time it seemed forced, a plea and as if Desmond were in a fit of hysteria.  
  
He reached into his coat, taking hold of the dagger hidden within and rushed into the room.


	14. discord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally? I hate this chapter. I was writing it and all I could think was, _God...this is horrible. Absolute garbage._ However, what happens in here is important and I may have taken some liberties on some stuff, but that's pretty much what fanfiction is, right?

All Desmond could remember was waking up and feeling a wave of nausea crash over him the second he rolled over onto his side. His face was warm, cheeks tingling and he began breathing in deep to stave off the impending bile trying to scald his throat. He had squeezed his eyes shut and covered his mouth as he hung his head over the edge of the bed. Slowly, Desmond had lowered himself from the bed to the floor in an attempt to seek out a cooler surface. Create some sort of balance and fight off the uneasy quell of his stomach.  
  
It had worked, for the most part.  
  
Until he heard someone shout at an intensity that had Desmond think they were _inside_ the bureau. As if they had found a way inside and were mere feet from finding him. He curled up in a panting, sweat soaked mess. Vulnerable.  
  
His eyes had snapped open, body already in motion and Desmond stumbled back a bit once he was on his feet. And the world swam for a matter of minutes until everything went _dark_.  
  
No. Not 'dark.' Not entirely.  
  
It was almost as if the room had been sapped of all its color and became various shades of grey. There wasn't a speck of color to be seen and Desmond held his hands out in front of him as if seeing his own pale skin would make it better. However, all he could see was white. Blinding white, right where his hands should be. Desmond took in an unsteady breath, his chest shaking, and curled his fingers to see them disappear into the mass.  
  
"No..."  
  
He uncurled his fists, splayed his fingers out wide.  
  
"No."  
  
Desmond whipped around, searching desperately for some source of life. Only to be greeted with swirls of black and grey. He turned on his heel towards the pile of clothes Malik had put away the day before and prayed to whatever God would listen that whatever he was going through would go away. He looked directly at what should've been a red sash, but -  
  
"No! No, no, no, no!"  
  
He stumbled back and bumped into a table, knocking over the vase. The resounding crash echoing in his ears, banging against his eardrums like a relentless predator tearing into its prey. Desmond's eyes widened and he clamped his hands over his ears as he dropped down into a crouch. His brows knit, nails digging into his scalp and muscles jumping.  
  
He belatedly realized he was possibly having a panic attack.  
  
Desmond closed his eyes but it only made the pain from the few weeks come crashing down on him all at once.  
  
He screamed. Over and over again, unable to find some semblance of peace and safety. He dragged his hands down the sides of his face as he opened his eyes, tears welling up and he sobbed.  
  
 _Fuck me..._  
  
Malik wasn't even back from shopping yet and here he was: unable to see straight and quite possibly losing his Goddamn mind. Desmond almost entertained the idea of laughing hysterically. After all, he'd been forced out of his ordinary life, turned into a lab rat, somehow wound up in the past and now he could very well be dying like he'd said the week before.  
  
With how his luck was running, he wouldn't be surprised.  
  
 _Just fuck -_  
  
"Dezmund!"  
  
Desmond sucked in a breath, jerking his head up toward the curtain blocking his view of the bureau. He moved to get up and ended up bumping into something that knocked him down once more. Though not before he managed to gasp out, "Malik?"  
  
He couldn't remember much of what happened next, aside from the fact that a man cloaked in a blue glow burst into the room with what looked like a knife. Desmond could also remember how he screamed and backed away from the man until his back hit the wall. He knew that he struggled like a man possessed when they tried to touch him and how he swore like it would make a lick of difference.  
  
Desmond remembered how the figure covered his eyes with their hand and how he couldn't hold back the whimper that came from the contact. Their hand was cold, oddly enough, cooler than Desmond had anticipated and much... _kinder_.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
His erratic breaths slowed, heart ceasing its staccato rhythm and closed his eyes again.  
  
"Dezmund..."  
  
"Malik...I...I'm sorry, I didn't - I just...I couldn't see you." Desmond wet his lips and swallowed the lump in his throat. "I couldn't...I couldn't see anything."  
  
There was a soft, drawn out hum. As if Malik was taking in what he had to say and turning it over in his head. After a few minutes, Malik removed his hand and brushed his thumb over Desmond's cheek as he looked him over. "Nothing?"  
  
"Yeah. Kinda." Desmond slowly opened his eyes again, flinching away when he noticed that Malik was still surrounded in a blue light. "You're -"  
  
Malik took his hand away from Desmond's face and, instead, rested the palm against the back of his head to pull him in. Gently guiding Desmond to rest his forehead on Malik's shoulder and eased his hand down to knead the back of Desmond's neck. Slow, methodical...careful. As if Desmond was made of glass and would break at any moment.  
  
"Close your eyes, Dezmund. It will pass."  
  
He shifted his head, trying to look up at Malik's face but the grip on his neck tightened once Malik felt him move.  
  
"Close your eyes."  
  
Desmond, deciding it was pointless to fight at this point, did so and slumped like a lifeless doll the second he did.  
  
But not before catching, "You are too old for this to be happening."

* * *

Malik stood by the bed for what felt like hours after he managed to get Desmond back under the covers. He furrowed his brows as he sat down on the edge and hooked his right leg over his knee. The longer he stayed there and the more he thought on it, everything began to fall into place. Now that it had, Malik couldn't help but feel like a fool for not realizing it sooner.  
  
The cronic mirgaines, dizzy spells, sensitivity to light and sound, loss of appitite...  
  
 _How could I not recognize the symptoms?_ He tipped his head back and rubbed his forehead. _How did I not realize it? But, surely, it couldn't be...he's too old._  
  
Malik lowered his hand and glared at nothing in particular as Desmond slept peacefully behind him. He felt guilt gnaw at his insides as he began to chew over Altair's accusatory words a month ago. About how the only proof Desmond had about being an assassin was his word, knowing the Creed and because Malik saw blue when he used his second vision to reassure himself on his gut feeling. He had no true reason to doubt Desmond, especially not after so long.  
  
However...

Malik peered over his shoulder, watching as Desmond shifted and sighed. "It is late for you to be obtaining your second sight."

* * *

"Malik?"  
  
Malik's hand paused midway to the parchment he'd been reaching for and turned to regard Desmond. He still looked ill, but had some color coming back to his cheeks. More alive and less like he was at death's door. Though that didn't change the fact Desmond was using the wall to keep himself upright.  
  
He frowned as Desmond slowly made his way toward the desk. "Dezmund, are you sure you are well enough to be moving around?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm good." Desmond offered up a small smile once he reached his destination, hands resting on the worn surface to keep him on his feet. "I slept like the dead for the past few weeks for fuck's sake. I think I'm good." He lowered his gaze once their eyes locked and Desmond bit the inside of his cheek. "Besides, I wanted to ask you something." He tapped his finger for a couple beats before looking up to face Malik with a grimace. "Do you...know what was wrong with me? I mean, what the Hell happened to me? I couldn't _see_."  
  
Malik pursed his lips and furrowed his brows as he turned his gaze elsewhere. He crossed his arm, fingers curling around his bicep as he eyed Desmond for what felt like hours until he sighed. Malik closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped as he pressed his back against the shelf. "I need you to be honest with me, Dezmund. Did you lie to me?"  
  
He blinked and leaned back. Though it looked more like creating distance from Malik. "'lie to you?' Lie to you about wha-"  
  
Malik's eyes snapped open and he leveled Desmond with a glare. " _Did you lie to me?_ "  
  
Desmond felt his muscles bunch like a deer preparing to flee at the slightest hint of aggression as his stomach twisted into a knot. "I...I don't know. I don't even know what you're talking about! I haven't lied to you about anything!"  
  
"Do you truly mean that? Not a single lie?" Malik pushed away from the shelf and stepped up to the counter across from Desmond. "Tell me, Dezmund, is it common for your people to gain their second sight later in life?" He lowered his hand, placing it on the desk and leaning in with an analytical glint in his eyes as he stared back at Desmond. "Because it is not where I come from. We do not allow outsiders in the Creed and expect them to learn and obey. There are things that cannot be taught and our second sight is one of them."  
  
"'second sight?'"  
  
"Yes. How do you think we tell our enemies apart from our allies? Leave it up to chance? No. We know because we can _see_!" Malik slammed his fist down and Desmond flinched back, nearly tumbling to the floor from the sudden shift in equilibrium. "You are too old to be getting it now! So, I ask you again, did you lie to me, Dezmund?"  
  
Desmond swallowed and gripped the edge of the counter as his mind raced, trying to find some reason as to why this was sparking Malik's temper. Hell, Desmond didn't even know how it was causing Malik to be this upset and questioning him. _'second sight'...? What the fuck does that even - oh...oh **fuck**._  
  
His eyes widened and Desmond grabbed at his chest with one of his hands as it hit him. "...shit." Desmond stared at Malik in disbelief. "You...you were blue. I-I wasn't going blind, I was -" He sucked in a breath and tried to calm himself before he started freaking out again.  
  
There was a sigh before Desmond heard, "You were _seeing_." and he righted himself to see Malik's expression soften.  
  
"But what did you mean when you said I was 'too old?'"  
  
Malik looked down at his hand and wet his lips as he leaned on his elbow. His eyes glossed over, something that always happened when he was remembering Kadar before Solomon's Temple. "We..." He blinked, his eyes regaining their focus once more and Malik returned his attention to Desmond. "Each and every one of us goes through the symptoms at a young age. Not as severe as yours were, mind, but they were about the same. Except not all the children went through it, but those who did were 'chosen,' as it were. They were the only ones who could join the Creed if they desired such."  
  
"Wait, so..." Desmond approached the desk and leaned on his arm to get some of his weight off his feet. "It's like puberty? Growing pains? Then why the Hell did it take all this time for me to get it? This..." He made a vague gesture. "'second sight.'"  
  
"I do not know, Dezmund." Malik closed his eyes and rubbed his face. "I wish I did but I do not. All I do know is that this is not normal."  
  
"So what now?" Desmond ducked his head the second Malik looked up and hoped he hid his worry before Malik saw it. "I mean...I guess, I just..." He bit the inside of his cheek and curled his hands into fists. "...I'm not an assassin. Not really. I didn't find out until a while ago, but I didn't believe it."  
  
He paused to see if Malik would say or do anything, which Desmond wouldn't blame him for, but all he got was radio silence. Desmond swallowed the lump in his throat and chanced a glance in Malik's direction. What he saw was the equivalent of ramming a knife into his gut and twisting it mercilessly.  
  
Desmond stood and reached a hand out hesitantly. "Malik...? Malik, I -"  
  
His hand was swatted away, the sting singing through his nerves and Desmond couldn't help but feel as if his heart had been ripped out. Only to have it get worse when Malik's expression darkened and he hissed out, "Do not touch me."  
  
"Malik, please, I just -"  
  
"Silence!" Malik rose his hand and jabbed his index in Desmond's direction. "Not another word! I will have none of it and you can save your petty excuses for some other fool. I understand that you were under dire circumstances, but why did you have to keep up the charade after all this time? Why could you not be honest with me?"  
  
"Because you're all I have here!" Desmond threw his arm to the side, gesturing to outside of the bureau. "I don't know anyone here, Malik! How did you expect me to walk up to you and tell you I'm not really who I say I am? You would've tossed me out on my ass and I'd have _no one_! And I can't expect Altair to help me find somewhere I can stay because he _doesn't fucking trust me_! I've been fucked over enough to have some idea of how screwed I'd be if I was forced to survive on my own..." His voice fell and Desmond blinked, surprised when he realized what he'd just said.  
  
Also with how close he was to Malik, having moved toward him during his long-winded speech. Desmond stood there, sucking in lungful after lungful of air and shook. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at his eyes before looking back at Malik.  
  
"Please, Malik...I don't - don't make me leave. I don't have anyone and I wouldn't last ten minutes out there."  
  
Malik stared at him for a long time before he looked away and Desmond feared Malik would tell him to leave. That is until Malik ran his fingers through his hair in a mix of defeat and agitation before, "Fine. But you have to tell me _everything_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who didn't catch on, 'second sight' is basically Eagle Vision. Also, Desmond couldn't see through Eagle Vision like Altair could whenever he used it in the Animus sessions, hence why he was freaking out. Think of it like how the game ends. Where Desmond suddenly has the ability to use it and then you have the joy of seeing drawings made out of blood everywhere.


	15. trouble ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept second guessing the first half of this, but here we are with chapter 15!

There was a tense silence that blanketed the room as Desmond stared at Malik with his mouth gaped open. ' _everything_.' He had to tell Malik _everything_ that he'd been keeping under a tight lid. For very good reasons, may he point out, because who knows what would happen if Desmond did lay out all his cards on the table.  
  
However, the look he was getting brooked no argument.  
  
He couldn't weasel his way out of this nor could he dodge it by wording everything vaguely. It was a dangerous game he was playing now, all because he didn't want to lose his only ally and shelter. In other words: he was utterly and royally screwed.  
  
Desmond swallowed the lump in his throat as he took a step back, distancing himself from the expectant look and to get his bearings. "Where...where should I start?" His voice was soft, hesitant, and was more or less speaking for himself than as a genuine question. "I..."  
  
Desmond lowered his gaze to his hands, noticing with the briefest twinge of disgust that they were shaking. Honest to God _shaking_. He shook his hands before curling them into fists and locked his eyes onto Malik's.  
  
"I want you to know that I wasn't lying about where I'm from. I never lied about that or anything I told you after either." He bit the inside of his cheek as he shifted, nerves making him restless. "I'm not an assassin, but I never lied to you about anything else. Just...I lived a pretty normal life until six months ago."  
  
He took a deep breath before telling Malik of how he'd been at work, like it was just another day, about how Abstergo came storming into the bar and dragged him away from his normal life. Laid out the conversation he'd had with Vidic and threat that was issued if he refused to cooperate, but glazed over the reason of _why_ aside from, "They just wanted another lab rat, I guess." Though Desmond could see Malik's expression darken as he continued to tell him all he knew and what he'd been dealing with.  
  
It was a look of horror mixed with unbridled rage. The murderous kind of rage that thirst to spill the blood of those that had caused such pain and suffering to one someone cares for. It was the type of anger that Desmond knew he'd never want to be on the receiving end of.  
  
"So, when you asked if someone forced me to do something..." He shrugged. "Well, that's it."  
  
"'that's it?'" Malik flicked his wrist with a sneer. "' _that's it_?' Is that all you have to say?"  
  
Desmond jerked and blinked. "Wha- y...yeah. I mean, what else is there to say -"  
  
"Dezmund, they _threatened to sedate you_ and would have inevitably _killed you_! How can you speak of it so casually?!"  
  
"There wasn't anything I could do, Malik!" He rubbed his face and sucked in a breath. "There was _nothing_ I could do. I was just a normal person that got dragged off into some fucked up version of Hell. What I knew then wouldn't have been able to help me get away. They had trained professionals and they would've killed me if I tried to resist." Desmond dropped his hands and gnawed on his lower lip. "Since asking you to help me train, I know more now than I did then. I can...I can protect myself better." He gave a bitter laugh. "Or I'm just being delusional."  
  
Malik didn't say anything for the longest time and Desmond avoided looking at him. Least he find out Malik couldn't swallow the truth and instead decided to look at Desmond like he's nothing more than a pile of horse shit on the street. If he did then Desmond wasn't sure he could handle it. At least, not without swearing up and down and getting angry because no one believed his story.  
  
Bile edged at the back of his throat when he caught sight of Malik's robe move away from the desk. His ears strained to try and find out just where Malik was going.  
  
The back room to throw Desmond's clothes in his face?  
  
The weapon rack to run him through and keep the Creed's secrets exactly that?  
  
Outside to turn Desmond over to the guards? Use him as a scapegoat for all of Altair's deeds and clear his name?  
  
He was so focused on all these terrible outcomes that he jumped when there was a ' _clunk_ ' just in front of him. Lifting his head, Desmond's eyes widened once he saw a bottle of wine on the desk and that Malik was opening it with renowned determination. Almost like he _had_ to get it open before he gave Desmond his sentence.  
  
With a rough swallow, Desmond took a step toward the desk and held out his hand. "I can get that open if you're having trouble."  
  
Malik paused before he looked between Desmond and the bottle. His knuckles were white from how tight his grip had become since he grabbed it. "Yes. I could...use a little help." He passed it to Desmond and watched him as he got it open.  
  
His posture was stiff, almost as if he's going to make a break for the exit at any moment. His fingers would slip, messing up one simple task. Unsteady and scared. Hyperfocused but trying to seem like whatever choice that's about to be made won't have him breakdown.  
  
He could tell just from those ticks alone that Desmond had already decided that Malik was going to turn him away. Force him to leave and survive in a world he doesn't know much about. Desmond, all alone and lost, trying to make ends meet in a place he doesn't belong. Yet, despite everything, he's giving off the signs of a man resigned to his fate and is just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
  
 _This is what he has been afraid of since the very beginning._  
  
Malik reached across the desk and placed it over Desmond's hand while trying not to show his displeasure in such a small act making Desmond almost jerk away. As if he was expecting Malik to _hurt him_. Or, maybe, he hadn't expected Malik to touch him so casually after the revelation of Desmond having secrets that he kept close to his chest.  
  
"Dezmund."  
  
There was a tick in Desmond's jaw and he was looking anywhere that wasn't Malik.  
  
"Dezmund."  
  
He saw a crack form, Desmond's wall crumbling and revealing the fear laying beneath.  
  
"Look at me." Malik pressed his side against the desk to give himself more room to reach and he grabbed Desmond's wrist. The pulse under his fingertips fluttering and he could feel the tremors running though Desmond. "Look at me, Dezmund."  
  
Desmond kept his eyes lowered, unable to bring himself to look at anything but Malik's hand. "Malik, if you're going to kick me out, just do it already. I know what I did was... _is_ horrible. Unforgivable. But I just want you to know I'm..." He squeezed his eyes shut and rose his hand to cover his mouth. "I'm so sorry."  
  
Malik's eyes widened after seeing the tremors take control and Desmond's hold on the bottle loosening to the point it started slipping. Releasing Desmond, he caught the bottle and set it on the counter before reaching out to grab Desmond's arm to stable him. The jerk had Desmond open his eyes and stare across the desk to Malik, blinking a few times to remove the sudden sting.  
  
"You sound like a man that has resigned himself to the gallows. Cease such and _breathe_." He tightened his hold and shook Desmond. "Dezmund, you are letting your mind run wild and need to breathe before you can't any longer."  
  
"But - but you're -"  
  
"Cease." Malik narrowed his eyes and slowly let go of Desmond's arm. "You still need to tell me the rest of your story, after all. We will see where we go once you are finished." He gestured to the bottle with a raised brow. "That is what this is for as well. If some of it is painful, do not hold back. I know I will be needing some as well."  
  
Desmond pressed his hand on the desk and looked toward the wine as he took in a deep breath.  
  
He could smell ink, spices and faint traces of the wine.  
  
He could see in color and could see that Malik had taken the bottle to hand it over.  
  
He had a story to tell and had the smallest glimmer of hope that things would work out for the best.  
  
Desmond took another deep breath and took the offered wine to take a swig.

* * *

Abbas sat astride his steed and held the reigns in one hand as he sheathed his sword. He cast a brief glance over the guards that had charged at his horse earlier, with little to no provocation at best. He scoffed and urged the beast to turn around to head back in Jerusalem's direction.  
  
If only he hadn't been preoccupied with the guards, then he would've been that much closer. Not only that, but then he could recuperate in Malik's bureau before beginning his investigation. He was still unsure as to why Al Mualim chose him for this task, but Abbas was glad that the damned 'attack dog' hadn't been granted the luxury. However, to think that _he_ would be picked to do an all important mission.  
  
Abbas felt a smirk tug at the corner of his lip as Jerusalem came into view and he spurred his steed on.  
  
He couldn't help but notice how the guards surrounded the entrance like they were expecting someone to try to enter the city. It didn't take long to figure out that they'd become hypervigilant after the last assassination Altair had likely done the last time he'd visited. Probably done as recklessly as his storming Robert in Solomon's Temple, no doubt. Having overheard Malik regal that tale personally, Abbas had no qualms to thinking that Altair had barely changed since he'd been stripped of his status. After all, one mistake's consequences did not mean that a person would learn the first time they're punished.   
  
That and seeing Altair crawl on the ground like a sniveling rodent was the most beautiful thing Abbas had ever witnessed.  
  
Abbas clicked his tongue as he pulled the reigns back, urging his steed to a stop before the gates. He hopped off and wound them around his hand a couple times before leading the horse to the stable. He ran his hand over its mane as he tied the reigns to the stable and gave its neck a pat before making his way into the city.  
  
The guards didn't bother him as he ventured in, but Abbas kept his head down regardless as to not raise suspicion.  
  
He only risked lifting his head once he was a few feet away from them and pushed his hood off his head. His eyes ran over the landscape, checking to see if anyone was going to attempt to deter him from his mission. Namely, those damned beggars.  
  
Abbas turned after a moment and wandered down an alleyway, slowly making his way toward the bureau.

* * *

"Tell me more of this...'Abstergo.'"  
  
Desmond bit his lip and looked down at his hands. He was almost certain he'd been breaking all the protocols that came with time travel, but Malik told him not to lie and he's all Desmond had here. Even if he tried to skirt the topic, Malik would get this look on his face. Like he knew all of Desmond's ticks. When he's sad, when he's getting excited about something...  
  
When he's lying or trying to.  
  
Desmond dropped his face into his hands and mumbled, "I'm screwing _everything_ up by telling you all of this..."  
  
Malik sat across from Desmond on the mound of pillows, both of them having relocated when Desmond's legs almost gave out a second time. All from Malik's urging and Desmond gratefully taking it.  
  
"I highly doubt it." Malik tipped his head back to peer out the rooftop entrance. "If anything, we could possibly prevent them from establishing early. Prevent what happened to you from happening to anyone else they dare to hurt."  
  
"Look, Malik." Desmond lowered his hands and furrowed his brows. "This is against basically everything scientists -" He waved a hand dismissively at the look he got. "I'll tell you about them later. Anyway, this is against everything in the 'do not do' list." Desmond shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't know how to explain it. Abstergo was supposed to be a pharmaceutical facility. To better everyone's lives. Instead, I find out they're all fucking nutcases and doing fucked up shit."  
  
 Malik dipped his head down and tucked his thumb under his chin. "But you were chosen for a reason."  
  
"Yeah." Desmond scowled and threw a hand up. "That's the messed up part and that's how I found out that I'm, _somehow_ , related to an assassin. Far as I knew, my whole family was just a bunch of farmers."  
  
"...this is troublesome."  
  
Desmond blinked and twisted around to look at Malik. He noticed how his brow was scrunched up, his eyes steeling over and jaw set. How he was deep in thought and was bothered with what he may be coming to for a conclusion.  
  
"Malik?"  
  
Malik glanced over to Desmond as he lowered his hand as he parted his lips to speak, but stopped and tensed as he whipped his head toward the roof. "Dezmund, hurry. Go into my room."  
  
"What? But -"  
  
He stood and grabbed onto Desmond's arm, the grip tight and demanding, before tugging him up off the ground. "Go. _Now_." Malik gave Desmond a shove in the direction of his room and Desmond stumbled as he tried to catch his footing. "Hurry."  
  
Confused, Desmond slowly nodded before turning and rushing to get into Malik's room. The curtain billowed for a brief moment once he slipped inside and the presence Malik had noticed made itself known. Abbas slipped into the bureau without a word and turned as he dusted himself off.  
  
" _Greetings, brother. I pray I did not come at a bad time._ " he offered.  
  
Malik tisked and bent down to pick up the bottle he'd set aside after they'd drunk a good portion of it. " _Worry not. I did not have any plans for the day anyway._ " He walked into the room over once he stood up. " _How may I be of service, Abbas?_ "  
  
Abbas followed after him, glancing around the room as he did so. " _I simply ask for lodging for the next couple of nights. The Grand Master asked me to look into a possible disturbance in your district._ "  
  
Malik set the wine down on the table and rose a brow. " _And why have I yet to hear of this until now?_ "  
  
" _Peace, Malik._ " Abbas held up his hands. " _I do not wish to start a fight. I am simply doing as the Grand Master has asked of me._ " He pivoted to the side and side-eyed the bottle after a few beats. " _I see that today has not been well for you._ "  
  
" _It has been...trying. Today is a little harder than others._ "  
  
Abbas nodded, slow and understanding. " _I know it must still be hard. Having your only family taken from you so suddenly and before your own eyes._ "  
  
Malik's jaw ticked. " _Yes. It is._ " He released his hold on the bottle and placed it on the desk. " _Now, brother, tell me of this disturbance the Grand Master speaks of. Perhaps I may be able to help find a place to start._ "  
  
" _Ah, yes. He has only informed me that something has changed here and that it may not be for the best. Though I doubt he speaks of the guards, as they have always been that way._ " He made a vague gesture to the outside. " _Rather short tempered and simpleminded._ "  
  
" _Of course. However, since the last leader has been assassinated, things have been difficult here._ " Malik rubbed his chin, making sure to keep his gaze from wandering to where Desmond had hid. Since hearing everything Desmond said, he has no doubt that he is the 'problem' Al Mualim speaks of. " _Perhaps you should take to the square. Listen in on what they are saying, as it is the best place to hear what has changed in Jerusalem._ "  
  
Abbas nodded, turning to leave the bureau but stopped once he reached the doorway. " _If I may, brother...?_ "  
  
" _What is it?_ "  
  
He glanced over his shoulder. " _Before my arrival, were you talking to someone?_ "  
  
Malik's eyes hardened for a moment before he closed them and made a dismissive gesture. " _You are hearing things, Abbas. Now go and return when you're ready._ "  
  
" _Ah...of course. My apologies, brother. Thank you for your help._ "  
  
He then made his leave and Desmond took that moment to poke his head out with a worried look. "Malik...you don't think..." Desmond stopped and tightened his hold on the curtain as he lowered his gaze to the floor. "You don't think he was talking about me, do you?"  
  
Malik sighed and rubbed his temple. "I do not know, Dezmund, but we must be more careful from here on out."


End file.
